^S^^^p,; 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://archive.org/details/alamanceorgreatfOwiley 


ALAMANCE; 


OR, 


THE  GREAT  AND  FIIAL  EXPERIMENT. 


One  good  deed,  dying  tongueleaa, 
Slaughters  a  thousand  waiting  on  that. 

Winter's  Tale. 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS, 
82   CLIFF  STREET,    NEW   YORK. 

184  7. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  one  thousand 
eight  hundred  and  forty-seven,  by 

Harper  &  Brothers, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  Southern  District 
of  New  York. 


TO 


JAMES    IREDELL,   ESQ, 


THIS    WORK, 

THE    FIRST    FRUITS    OF    MY    PEN, 

ARE     AFFECTIONATELY     DEDICATED, 

WIT*H    A    HOPELESS    WISH    THAT    IT    MAY    RENDER 

THE    NAME    OF    SO    GOOD    A   MAN 

A3    IMMORTAL   A3    IT    DESERVES    TO    BE. 


TODR   FRIEND, 

THE  AUTHOR. 


DEDICATION  THE  SECOND. 


TO 


Thy  name,  sweet  friend,  should  also  grace 
This  book,  whose  heroine  thou  art, 

And  take  in  fame's  proud  fane  the  place 
It  long  has  held  within  my  heart, 

The  brightest,  dearest,  could  I  see 
That  this  poor  offering  of  mine 

Would,  by  the  world's  applause,  e'er  be 
For  such  a  name  a  proper  shrine. 

There  may,  perchance,  however,  fall 
Upon  the  book  and  on  the  scribe 

Oblivion's  unwelcome  pall, 
Or  censure  of  a  heardess  tribe; 

And,  therefore,  I  will  brave  alone 
The  dangers  of  this  untried  sea. 

The  losses  all  shall  be  my  own — 
The  glories  I  will  share  with  thee! 


New  York,  Sept.  184X 


PREFACE 


HORACE  LOCKWITTER,  OF  NEW  YORK. 


"Once  on  a  time"  it  was  ray  fortune  to* pass  through  that  remote  and  unex- 
plored part  of  our  country  designated  on  the  maps  as  the  State  of  North  Carolina. 
To  my  great  surprise,  I  found  that  the  inhabitants  were  neither  Cannibals,  Sala- 

%  manders,  nor  Fire-eaters,  nor  even  Pagans,  though  there  was  among  them  a  con- 
siderable sprinkling  of  Jews.  Men  and  women  generally  dressed  after  the  Euro- 
pean fashion,  lived  in  houses  with  chimneys,  and  ale  three  times  a-day,  though  at 
very  unusual  hours — breakfast,  for  instance,  was  served  up  at  seven  in  the  morn- 
ing, dinner  at  about  one,  poit  meridian,  and  supper  at  sundown — but,  bating  this 
barbarous  custom,  and  the  still  mote  barbarous  habit  of  going  to  bed  at  ten  o'clock 
at  night,  I  became  satisfied  that  the  better  portion  of  the  inhabitants  might  be 
considered  as  a  Christian,  civilized  people.  That  class  of  the  natives  who  live 
naked  in  the  woods,  subsisting  on  acorns,  raw  snails,  and  wild  onions,  I  did  not 
see,  nor  could  I  ascertain  their  exact  locality.  Those  with  whom  I  mingled  were 
a  plain,  unfrizzled  people,  sadly  addicted  to  sobriety  aim  matrimony,  and  greatly 
-deficient  in  the  art  of  lying,  and  other  fashionable  accomplishments  and  amuse- 
ments. It  was  the  fashion  among  the  men  to  shave  their  faces,  and  among  the 
women  to  preserve  the  original  forms  bestowed  on  them  by  Nature  ;  and  I  was 
credibly  informed  that  there  were  many  idolatrous  worshippers  of  those  fabulous 
deities.  Love  and  Friendship,  whose  temples  still  exist  in  considerable  numbers. 
True,  missionaries  are  among  them,  doing  all  they  can  to  eradicate  the  seeds  of 
this  noxious  superstition,  especially  among  the  young  and  enlightened;  but  the 
common  people  still  cling,  with  singular  tenacity,  to  the  antiquated  notions  of  their 
fathers.  So  much  for  the  inhabitants.  Of  the  face  of  the  country,  its  locality, 
climate,  and  productions,  I  regret  that  I  did  not  take  fuller  notes,  and  cannot  but 
hope  that  some  enterprising  traveller  will  yet  explore  those  unknown  regions,  and 
give  the  world  the  benefit  of  his  investigations  and  discoveries.  The  State  (as  it 
is  in  compliment  called)  is  situated  somewhere  between  the  Arctic  Ocean  and 
Cape  Horn,  and  the  climate  is  a  medium  between  that  of  Siberia  and  Equador. 
The  principal  productions  of  the  soil  are  tar  (so  called  from  Tar  River,  on  which 

;  it  grows),  tobacco,  and  Indian  maize.  The  largest  cities  are  those  of  Henderson 
(named  after  General  Pinckney  Henderson,  of  Texas),  Ashboro',  and  Buncombe; 
and  the  only  seaport  town  is  that  called  Nag'?  Head,  on  account  of  its  having  bVen 
built  in  a  semicircle  rguud  the  bay,  into  which  are  emptied  the  waters  of  the  Yad- 
kin. This  information,  scant  as  it  is,  exhausts  my  memoranda  in  regard  to  the 
•country  and  people  at  larye.  , 


Vi  PREFACE. 

!  It  was  my  luck,  good  or  bad,  to  be  delayed  several,,  days  at  a  very  neat  and 
pleasant  village,  the  shady  serenity  and  repose  of  which  forcibly  reminded  me  of 
those  South  Sea  Islands,  in  regard  to  which  so  many  enchantftig  stories  have  re- 
cently been  written.  My  landlord,  to  whom  I  herehy  make  my  acknowledgments 
for  his  kindness  and  liberality,  formally  introduced  me  to  all  of  his  boarders,  and 
thus  I  became  acquainted  with — an  attorney  at  law,  and  a  gentleman~ot'  some  'local 
celebrity  as  a  writer.  I  was  informed  that  this  last-named  gentleman  was  writing 
a  book,  and  it  at  once  occurred  to  me  that  he  had  made  a  happy  hit.  A  North 
Carolina  book  !  What  a  gem  for  the  curious  in  literature  !  I  supposed,  of  course, 
that  it  was  a  fiction,  and  I  was  enraptured  at  the  idea.  All  the  rest  of  the  habit- 
able and  uninhabitable  globe  has  been  explored  :  the  character,  inhabitants,  and 
manners  of  all  other  parts  are  familiar  even  to  our  school-boys.  But  here,  thought 
I,  in  this  fabulous  country — here,  in  this,  the  only  dark  corner  of  the  earth — is  a 
proper  scene  for  the  expatiations  of  genius,  and  especially  French  genius.  Here 
can  be  located  wizards,  enchanters,  hippogriffs,  wild  giants,  swarthy  dwarfs,  appa- 
ritions, prodigies,  wandering  Jews,  mysteries,  murders,  rapes,  and  rapine.  Here  is 
the  place  to  lay  the  scene  ;  here  all  the  enginery  of  a  popular  fiction-writer's  brain 
may  be  planted.  Hence  may  stalk  forth  to  astonish,  delight,  and  electrify  the 
world,  frightful  phantoms,  blood-reeking  assassins,  incarnate  devils,  celestial  wan- 
tons, spiritual  rowdies,  angelic  rogues,  philanthropic  villains,  holy  martyrs,  who 
love  other  men's  wives,  chaste  vestals,  who  consume  with  immortal  ardour  for  other 
women's  husbands,  charitable  fiends,  satyrs,  wood-nymphs,  and  dragons,  with  all 
their  accompaniments  of  cross-purposes,  horrible  rencontres,  glorious  suicides, 
heroic  murders,  magnanimous  robberies,  blood,  thunder,  and  earthquakes  !  Hap- 
py man  !  fortunate  genius  !  You  have  a  world  of  your  own — a  glorious  theatre 
for  an  infernal  tragedy.  fcSo  thinking,  I  called  one  morning  at  the  office  of  the  at- 
torney, and  found  him  listening,  with  apparent  interest,  to  the  story  of  an  old  man 
who  had  embarked  in  a  suit  to  recover  three  dollars  and  thirty-seven  cents  out  of 
an  insolvent  debtor !  Seven  times  the  old  gentleman  took  his  leave,  and  seven 
times  he  returned  with  new  instructions  about  his  suit,  and  an  increased  thickness 
;of  tongue.  At  last,  when  tolerably  drunk,  after  many  and  oft-repeated  instruc- 
tions to  his  counsel  to  be  vigilant  and  ferocious,  he  took  an  affectionate  and  final 
leave.  The  next  instant  a  host  of  boys  lounged  in  and  sat  an  hour,  and  these 
were  succeeded  by  a  very  voluble  gentleman,  who,  fearing,  as  he  alleged,  that  his 
friend  might  be  alone  and  suffering  in  solitude,  had  come  down  to  cheer  him  up. 
In  the  afternoon  I  called  again,  and  though  I  heard  voices  in  the  room  I  could  not 
distinguish  a  single  object  in  it.  The  floor  was  slippery  with  spittle,  and  the 
Y~smoke  from  the  pipes  of  a  dozen  furious  village  politicians  was  so  thick  that  it  really 
\ seemed  to  me  I  could  feel  it.  Having  settled  the  affairs  of  the  nation,  these  em- 
bryo statesmen  gave  way  at  last  to  several  octogenarians,  who  were  still  telling 
anecdotes  of  their  youth  long  after  my  friend's  hopes  of  even  a  cold  supper  had 
/become  utterly  desperate.  When  I  returned  at  night  I  more  than  ever  felt  for^ 
<  the  misfortunes  of  the  village  writer.  He  was  seated  by  his  table  with  anew  pen 
in  his  hand,  a  quire  of  clean  paper  before  him,  looking  with  an  abstracted  and 
melancholy  face  at  two  gentlemen  who  were  silently  lounging,  much  at  their  ease, 
in  one  corner  of  the  room,  each  puffing  a  segar  Determined  to  outsit  ihese 
gentry,  I  remained  till  half  after  one,  and  left  them  in  a  most  lively  and  wakeful 
lmmouiy 


PREFACE.  vii 

Day  after  day  I  met  with  the  like  state  of  things  at  the  attorney's  office,  till  at  '*""" 
ast  I  was  fortunate  enough  to  find  him  alone.  I  at  once  broached  the  subject 
that  had  been  dwelling  on  my  mind,  and  "  on  that  hint  he  spake."  I  can  never 
forget  his  looks,  or  his  words  either,  as  he  launched  off  into  a  most  pathetic  ac- 
count, of  the  miseries  of  his  situation,  and  an  eloquent  philippic  against  bores. 
He  concluded  by  declaring  that  he  had  given  up  in  despair,  for  it  was  his  destiny  \s^ 
to  be  bored.  .""  What  a  fate  !  To  have  a  gimblet  boring  against  each  rib  every 
hour  of  the  day,  would  be  delicious  titillation  compared  with  the  agonies  of  a 
moral  augerization."  I  agreed  with  him  that  an  author,  among  the  hapless  and 
accursed  race  of  whom  he  spoke,  was  in  a  worse  condition  than  the  man  who  lies 
down  to  sleep  among  the  spiders,  tarantulas,  centipedes,  chigoes,  and  musquitoes 
that  swarm  in  countless  thousands  about  every  blade  of  grass  and  every  leaf  and 
flower  in  the  valley  of  the  Rio  Grande  :  but  still,  I  suggested,  he  might  find  time 
for  the  production  of  a  fiction  of  the  kind  I  alluded  to.  /He  astonished  me  by  de- 
claring that  he  should  "never  defile  his  pen  in  the  composition  of  stuff  to  feed  the 
morbid  appetites  of  a  delirious  public."  J  Such  were  his  words,  and  my  astonish  {/ 
ment  became  disgust  when  he  intimated  his  dislike  to  the  writing  of  a  history  of 
North  Carolina,  which  he  might  fill  with  all  sorts  of  portents,  prodigies,  and  mar- 
vellous adventures.  "  Notwithstanding  the  fuss  made  about  it  by  her  literati," 
said  he,  "the  history  of  my  native  and  dear  old  State  would  be,  indeed,  an  'un- 
varnished tale,'  and  a  very  brief  one,  too,  for  all  the  most  stirring  and  delightful 
incidents  are  of  too  little  general  interest  to  suit  the  comprehensive  purpose  of 
history.  In  the  broad  scope  of  Clio's  eye,  there  is  little  in  Carolina  that  rises  to 
the  level  of  her  vision,  but  there  is  a  glorious  field  for  another  muse.  There  have 
been  men  here  who  only  wanted  a  theatre  to  render  them  world-renowned ;  and 
these  men,  and  the  remarkable  local  incidents  in  which  our  annals  abound,  need 
only  the  pen, of  a  .Scott  to  render  them  as  famous  as  the  similar  men  and  events 
in  Scottish  story."/  Hereupon  my  friend,  who  had  become  confidential,  read  me 
portions  of  his  work,  which  was  a  sort  of  book  of  memoirs,  and  from  the  inequal- 
ities in  the  style  of  which  the  writer's  varying  humours  and  constant  interruptions 
and  afflictions  were  clearly  discernible,  and  I  even  imagined  that  I  could  tell  where 
-a  sentence  had  been  commenced  early  in  the  morning,  with  a  clear  head  and  a 
lively  fancy,  and  finished  late  at  night,  with  a  foggy  brain  and  jaded  body.  Still 
I  advised  the  publication  of  the  book,  and,  after  a  vast  deal  of  hesitation,  the  au- 
thor concluded  to  follow  my  counsel.  "  I  think  I  could  write  something,"  said  he, 
"  for  I  have  loved  my  pen  from  boyhood,  andTTTa ve "Materials ;  I  want  opportu-f 
nity,  however,  and  if  this  undertaking  succeeds,  I  will  make  opportunity.  Now.  i 
I  have  a  regular  calling  of  a  different  character,  and  my  interviews  with  the  musesf 
are  like  the  devotions  of  a  heathen  in  a  Christian  land — brief  and  secret.  I  am 
bored,  watched,  and  suspected  of  some  outlandish  and  pagan  practice;  but  once  » 
let  me  be  afloat  as  an  author,  and  name  and  vocation  will  be  more  respected." 

("And  I,"  replied  ourself,  "will  write  your  preface,  and  save  your  modesty  by 
speaking  myself  of  the  disadvantages  under  which 'you  laboured.  What  else  shall 
I  say  ?  Any  thing  ad  captandum  V  "  No,  sir."  he  exclaimed,  "  No,  sir,  not  a 
word  :  if  my  book  has  merits  somebody  will  find  them  out;  if  it  has  none  let  it  i 
sink.  You,  however,  may  say  this  much  : — Say  to  the  North  Carolinians.,  that  I  i 
have  ever  loved  my  native  State  as  tenderly,  perhaps,  as  those  sons  upon  whom 
this  partial  mother  has  more  freely  bestowed  her  smiles  and  her  caresses  •  that, 


vtfi  PREFACE. 

like  the  bard  of  Ayr,  filled  with  her  traditions,  and  dwelling  with  fervent  delight 
on  her  glorious  recollections,  I  have,  even  from  a  child,  hoped  that  I,  in  honour  of 
this  good  old  mother, 

'  Some  usefu'  plan  or  book  might  make, 
Or  sing  a  sang  at  least.' 

Say  to  them,  these  Carolinians,  that  they  ought  to  reward  me,  if  only  for  my  in- 
tentions— but  whether  they  do  or  not  I  shall  not  die  of  a  broken  heart.  Say  to 
my  friends,  that  if  my  book  is  a  failure,  they  will  praise  and  patronize  me  the 
more,  and  tell  the  public  generally  to  '  consult  my  title-page.' " 

I  thought  to  myself  that  a  man's  friends  were  apt  to  be  kind  in  proportion  to 
his  success ;  but  remembering  that  the  author  was  a  simple-hearted  Carolinian,  I 
only  asked  him  what  more  I  should  say.  He  earnestly  requested  me  to  disclaim, 
for  him  any  intention  of  painting  or  hitting  at  the  characters  of  any  of  his  cotem- 
poraries,  and  to  say  that  his  book,  its  incidents,  and  the  persons  introduced  are 
purely  historical,  and  belong  to  a  by-gone  age.  "In  a  word,"  he  concluded,  "I 
have  written  for  my  own  amusement  and  for  the  gratification  of  the  public.  Yet 
some  will  censure,  some  ridicule,  and  some  will  be  offended  and  talk  of  slander 
and  libel ;  and  thus  a  general  clamour  will  be  raised  by  those  for  whose  edification 
I  have  laboured.  If  so,  let  the  world  wag  on — I  shall  certainly  write  on.  \  I  can 
truly  say  I  hate  no  one  and  I  fear  no  one,  and  if  any  petty  soul  hates  me,  he  is 
expending  his  animosity  to  little  purpose,  for  I  shall  never  feel  it  or  regret  it. 
With  a  conscience  void  of  offence  towards  all  God's  creatures,  I  have 

y  A  tear  for  those  who  love  me,         .  ■ 
And  a  smile  for  those  who  hate.' "  J 

Reader !  I  have  given  you  a  brief  sketch  of  the  country  in  which  the  follow- 
ing scenes  are  laid.  I  have  feebly  depicted  the  difficulties  with  which  the  author 
contended,  and  pourtrayed  faintly  his  good  intentions.  The  book  is  before  you, 
and  though  it  treats  not  of  Lapland  witches,  nor  of  gibbering  spectres  in  old 
German  castles,  and  contains  not,  for  your  fastidious  palate,  a  savoury  dish  of  un- 
natural and  astounding  fictions,  seasoned  with  the  reeking  filth,  infamy,  and  in- 
iquity of  St.  Giles  and  the  Faubourgs,  it  may  still  interest  or  amuse  you  for  an 
idle  hour.     Peace  be  with  you  all ! 

1 


ALAMANCE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

At  UMANCE   IN   THE   OLDEN   TIME. 

On  a  Dright  Sabbath  morning  in  June, 
some  three  quarters  of  a  century  ago.  a 
wayfarer,  in  passing  through  one  of  the 
middle  counties  of  North  Carolina,  came 
to  a  country  church  which  attracted  his 
attention.  There  was  something  in  the 
appearance  of  things  about  the  place  which 
harmonized  with  the  traveller's  feelings, 
and,  dismounting  and  securing  his  horse 
to  the  bough  of  a  tree,  he  concluded  to 
wait  for  the  services  of  the  day.  The 
more  he  looked  round  him,  the  better  was 
he  pleased  with  his  resolution  ;  for  the 
church  and  all  about  it  wore  a  grave  and 
antique  air  that  impressed  him  much,  and 
rendered  him  curious  to  see  what  sort  of 
people  worshipped  there.  There  were 
two  houses,  one  of  which  was  very  large, 
the  sober  gravity  of  its  faded  red  contrast- 
ing not  unpleasantly  with  the  white  sashes 
of  its  numerous  windows.  Over  each  of 
the  four  doorways  there  was  a  small,  semi- 
circular shed,  supported  by  arms  of  paint- 
ed iron  that  came  out,  arched  akimbo, 
from  the  walls,  and  decorated  round  the 
edges  with  curiously  carved  work,  about 
which,  and  on  the  fretted  cornices,  swarms 
of  wasps  were  sunning  themselves,  and 
working  on  their  tiny  buildings.  The 
steps,  which  were  all  of  hewn  granite, 
were,  at  the  end  doors,  six  or  eight  feet 
high,  owing  to  the  declivities  which,  from 
near  the  centre  of  the  church,  ran  down  to 
two  small  creeks  that  met  a  few  hundred 
yards  north  of  the  edifice.  On  this  side, 
and  in  the  angle  of  the  plateau,  or  eleva- 
tion, was  another  and  smaller  house,  with 
a  chimney,  and  surrounded  by  sycamores. 
From  here  the  eye  ranged  over  an  ex- 
tensive, open  country,  and  several  farm- 
houses and  plantations  were  in  view.  The 
other  sides  were  shaded  by  a  few  stately 
and  venerable  oaks,  which,  at  a  short  dis- 
tance from  the  house,  were  merged  in 
thick  forests  of  similar  growth,  in  whose 
leafy  coverts  myriads  ol  sweet-voiced  birds 
were  singing.  Not  far  from  the  church 
was  an  extensive  grave-yard,  walled  in 
with  rock,  and  entered  by  an  arched  gate- 
way, the  stone  pillars  of  which  were  faced 
with  plates  of  blue  slate,  on  which  were 
Latin  inscriptions  in  honour  of  the  builder 


of  the  walls.  Hundreds  of  monuments  of 
various  kinds,  of  marble,  rock,  and  brick, 
and  of  all  ages,  indicated  that  this  silent 
city  was  peopled  with  several  generations 
of  a  large  parish  or  congregation,  while 
the  devices  and  inscriptions  on  the  tomb- 
stones, the  holly-trees  and  cedars,  the 
green  ivy  and  the  beds  of  flowers,  attest- 
ed the  taste  and  piety  of  the  living,  and 
their  tenderness  and  affection  for  the  mem- 
ory of  the  dead,  each  one  of  whom  must 
have  been  followed  to  his  last  resting-place 
by  troops  of  sorrowing  friends.  The 
stranger,  from  the  grave-yard,  went  into 
the  church,  which,  though  not  dilapidated, 
bore  unequivocal  signs  of  age.  The  low- 
^r  part  was  divided  into  five  compartments 
by  three  aisles,  one  of  which  ran  the  full 
length  of  the  edifice  from  east  to  west,  and 
the  other  two  led  from  it  to  the  two  doors 
on  the  southern  side.  In  the  centre  of  the 
other  side  was  a  lofty  pulpit  of  mahogany, 
ascended  by  a  flight  of  narrow,  balustraded 
stairs,  and  overhung  by  a  sounding-board 
supported  by  rods  from  the  ceiling,  and  so 
wrought  and  painted  as  to  resemble  a  mass 
of  billowy  clouds  just  rising  above  the 
horizon  on  a  summer  evening.  Immedi- 
ately in  front  of  the  pulpit,  and  joining  it, 
but  several  feet  lower,  was  the  "stand"  or 
pulpit  of  the  clerk,  and  round  three  sides 
of  the  building,  a  little  higher  than  the  pul- 
pit proper,  ran  a  gallery  with  balusters  in. 
front.  The  traveller  marked  all  these 
things  with  the  eye  of  a  virtuoso;  and 
wondering,  whence  in  a  country  like  this, 
could  come  the  opulence  to  build  and  the 
people  to  fill  such  an  edifice,  he  returned 
to  the  yard,  where  he  met  a  neatly-dressed 
lad,  who  at  once  and  strongly  excited  his 
interest.  The  boy  was  quite  young,  but 
on  his  face  was  plainly  visible  the  stamp 
of  a  bright  mind  and  a  good  heart,  his 
dark,  brilliant  eyes,  gleaming  with  an  ex- 
pression tender,  pensive,  and  intelligent. 

"  Don't  be  afraid  of  me,  my  pretty  friend," 
said  the  stranger.  "  I  hope  we'll  soon  get 
better  acquainted,  and  like  each  other." 

"  I  am  not  afraid  of  you,  sir,"  replied  the 
boy;  "  I  am  not  afraid  of  any  one  here; 
but  I  never  saw  you  before.  Do  you  be- 
long to  Alamance  ?" 

"  Is  that  IhTname  of  this  congregation  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  No,"  said  the  traveller ;  "  I  came  from 


10 


ALAMANCE. 


a  distant  country,  and  only  stopped  here 
to  look  at  the  place.  But  what  brought 
you  here  so  early'!" 

"1  always  come  early,"  replied  the  boy  ; 
"  I  like  to  get  here  before  any  one  else 
does,  to  ramble  over  the  grave-yard,  and 
sit  on  the  tomb-stones,  and  think." 

The  answer  going  straight  to  the  trav- 
eller's heart,  he  and  his  new  acquaintance 
soon  became  intimate,  and  sitting  down 
on  a  bench,  in  the  shade  of  a  tree,  the 
time  flew  fast  with  both  until  the  Alaman- 
cers  began  to  arrive.  They  came  stream- 
ing in  by  different  roads,  on  foot,  on  horse- 
back, and  in  gigs ;  the  young  ladies  gen- 
erally dashing  up  on  high- mettled  and 
prancing  steeds,  which  they  managed  with 
grace  and  ease.  There  was  no  noise  but 
the  /clatter  of  the  horses'  hoofs  and  the 
rattle  of  the  gigs  ;  no  confusion  and  bus- 
tle ;  no  loud  talking  and  laughing,  nor  sim- 
pering and  grimacing,  and  running  to  and 
fro  by  the  females,  to  show  their  flaunt- 
ing dresses,  their  fluttering  ribbons,  and 
smirking  faces.  The  traveller  noticed 
that,  with  a  quiet  but  hearty  manner,  every 
body  shook  hands  with  every  body  else, 
and  then  the  females  went  into  the  house, 
the  young  ones  sitting  modestly  and  silent- 
ly in  their  high-backed  pews,  while  the 
men,  gathering  in  groups  under  the  trees, 
talked  over  their  neighbourhood  affairs. 
The  traveller  noticed  also,  that  in  that 
great  multitude  of  every  age,  from  the 
white-headed  patriarch  of  three-score  and 
ten  to  the  toddling  infant,  each  one,  even 
among  the  blacks,  bore  himself  with  a  still 
and  hushed  gravity,  while  their  looks,  with- 
out being  austere,  wore  an  expression  se- 
date and  solemn.  He  observed  also,  and 
he  marvelled  at  the  fact,  that  there  was 
not  one  meanly-clad  person  in  the  crowd, 
and  that  even  the  negroes,  of  whom  there 
were  many,  were  neatly  dressed.  He  no- 
ticed, too,  that  his  youthful  friend  was  a 
great  favourite  with  old  and  young,  and  he 
saw  whispered  questions  frequently  put  to 
him,  to  which  he  replied  by  shaking  his 
head.  He  remained  with  the  boy,  and 
each  new-comer  cordially  shook  his  hand, 
but  asked  him  no  questions. 

"  Who  is  that  fine-looking  old  gentle- 
man, who  is  hitching  his  horse  to  the  syc- 
amore behind  the  .church  ?"  asked  the 
stranger. 

"  That,"  replied  the  boy,  "  is  the  Rev. 
Dr.  David  Caldwell,  our  minister,  sir.  He 
is  going  into  the  session-house  to  put  on 
lus  silk  cloak,  and  it's  time  to  go  in.  You 
must  sit  in  father's  pew,  and  Til  carry  you 
to  it." 

The  stranger  entered,  following  his 
youthful  guide,  and  saw  that  his  face  was 
scrutinized  by  more  than  one,  while  his 
bald  head  seemed  to  blush  during  the 
whole  of  the  service,  as  if  conscious  that 
it  was  the  grand  central  object  of  attraction 


for  all  the  eyes  in  that  crowded  audience. 
He  knew,  however,  that  the  eyes  were 
kind,  and  many  of  them  bright,  and  he  was 
delighted  at  the  edifying  silence,  attention, 
and  decorum  that  pervaded  the  assembly. 
He  was  pleased  with  the  sermon,  and  still 
more  pleased  with  the  singing,  the  solemn 
harmony  of  which  impressed  him  more 
than  he  had  ever  been  before  on  such  an 
occasion.  All  joined  in  the  song;  and,  all 
seeming  to  know  the  tunes  and  to  have 
melodious  voices,  a  strain,  grand,  solemn, 
and  soul-inspiring  swelled  through  the  spa- 
cipus  building,  subduing  in  every  heart  its 
worldly  lusts  and  its  selfish  passions,  and 
lifting  it,  in  devout  fervour,  above  the 
things  of  time  and  sense.  After  the  ser- 
mon the  congregation  were  dismissed  for 
a  short  recess,  and  the  traveller,  medita- 
ting on  what  he  had  heard  and  seen,  was 
following  a  crowd  in  the  direction  of  the 
spring,  when  he  was  accosted  by  his  ac- 
quaintance of  the  morning. 

"Mother  wants  to  see  you,"  said  the 
boy;  and, following  him,  the  stranger  came 
to  where  three  persons  were  sitting  on  the 
grass,  in  the  shade  of  a  sycamore.  One 
of  them  he  at  once  recognized  as  the  min- 
ister, who,  with  a  smile,  said  to  the  boy, 

"Introduce  us,  Henry,  to  your  friend." 

"I  don't  know  his  name,"  answered 
Henry,  looking  inquiringly  at  the  traveller. 

"  M'Bride,  Hector  M'Bride,  is  my  name," 
said  the  stranger;  "1  am  a  sojourner,  who 
stopped  here  to  hear  a  sermon,  and  an  ex- 
cellent one  it  was." 

"And  my  name,"  said  the  parson,  "is 
Caldwell,  and  I  am  happy  to  make  your 
acquaintance.  Mr.  M'Bride,  this  is  my 
friend,  Mr.  Warden,  and  that  is  his  lady. 
Your  young  friend  there  is  their  son  Hen- 
ry. As  the  days  are  long,  and  your  dinner 
may  be  late,  Mrs.  Warden  thought  you 
might  be  pleased  to  join  us  in  a  snack,  in 
which  case  you  will  please  fall  to." 

"  1  thank  you,  one  and  all,  for  your  kind- 
ness," replied  M'Bride,  "and  without  cer- 
emony, will  honour  your  collation  with  a 
traveller's  appetite." 

"  Do  you  purpose  to  make  any  stay  at 
Alamance  !"  asked  Warden,  as  they  were 
discussing  cold  chicken,  biscuit,  and  pies. 
"  You  must  excuse  the  question,  as  it  is 
not  prompted  by  idle  curiosity." 

"  1  readily  excuse  it,"  answered  M'Bride, 
"  and,  as  far  as  1  can,  will  answer  it  with 
pleasure.  I  am.  as  1  said,  a  wayfarer, 
and  I  have  no  particular  destination  in 
view,  having,  like  the  knights-errant  in 
the  old  romances,  given  the  reins  to  my 
horse,  and  letting  him  carry  ine  whither- 
soever his  pleasure  leads  him." 

"  Surely,"  said  the  parson,  ''  you  are  not 
about,  to  revive  that,  ancient  order— going 
about  in  quest  of  adventures,succouring  the 
distressed  and  rescuing  imprisoned  dam- 
sels.    1  see  no  helmet,  lance,  or  armour. 


ALAMANCE. 


II 


"  I  may  be  said  to  be  seeking  tbe  same 
ends,1'  replied  M'Bride,  "though  not  with 
sword,  lance,  and  buckler,  for  I  belong  to 
the  peace  establishment.  In  short,  acci- 
dents and  crosses  af  an  early  age  gave  me 
a  distaste  for  business;  and,  having  wan- 
dered about  till  I  hive  nearly  spent  my 
Blender  patrimony,  I  am  looking  out  for  a 
place  where  the  schoolmaster  is  needed. 
When  1  find  such  a  place,  if  the  people  suit 
me— I  am  hard  to  please — and  1  suit  them, 
1  shall  bring  myself  to  anchor.  Indeed,  to 
be  plain  with  you  all,  though  you  are 
strangers  to  me,  I  have  a  theory  which  I 
long  to  see  carried  out.  We  all  come  into 
the  world  with  ingenuous,  innocent,  and 
honourable  hearts  :  where  do  all  the  selfish 
men  and — begging  your  pardon  Mrs.  War- 
den—  mischievous  women  come  from  V 

"  We  are  corrupted  by  the  world,"  said 
Mrs.  Warden. 

'•  Exactly,"  exclaimed  the  master ;  "  and 
who  corrupts  the  world?  We  were  all  good 
once.  The  truth  is,  parents  and  teachers 
take  it  for  granted  that  other  children  will 
be  corrupted,  and,  in  self-defence,  they 
teach  their  own  to  be  cunning,  selfish,  and 
double  minded.  Now  this  is  a  great  evil 
under  the  sun,  and  I  wish  to  see  how  far 
the  schoolmaster  can  correct  it." 

•  "  I  like  your  notions,"  said  the  parson, 
"  and,  if  you  will  remain  awhile  at  Ala- 
mance, we'll  have  some  further  discourse 
upon  these  subjects,  and  perhaps,  too,  may 
find  a  location  that,  will  suit  you." 

"In  which  case,"  said  Warden,  "I  shall 
look  for  you  to  be  my  guest,  and  trust  we 
will  be  able  to  make  you  comfortable." 

The  traveller  consented  to  go  with  War- 
den that  night,  and  saw  that  the  arrange- 
ment gave  no  little  satisfaction  to  the  boy 
Henry,  whose  admiration  he  had  won,  by 
the  facility  with  which  he  had  translated 
the  Latin  inscriptions  at  the  grave-yard 
gate,  and  who  continued  to  act  as  his  cic- 
erone, introducing  him  to  various  people, 
and  showing  him  all  the  curiosities  about 
the  place.  When  the  services  for  the  day 
were  concluded,  the  gravity  of  the  con- 
gregation seemed  considerably  abated,  and 
they  went  round,  taking  leave  of  each  oth- 
er, and  pressing  the  parson  to  go  to  their 
houses.  He  had,  however,  kindly  to  re- 
fuse all  invitations,  for  he  was  engaged  to 
go  with  Warden,  who,  by  the  way,  had  to 
wait  a  long  time  for  his  reverend  friend, 
as  this  latter  made  it  a  point  to  attend  to 
their  horses  all  maiden  ladies  who  were 
without  a  beau.  It  may  be  mentioned,  too, 
by  the  way,  that  many  of  these,  who  were 
somewhat  advanced  in  years,  desired  their 
spiritual  guide  to  make  known  to  the  se- 
date-looking traveller,  that  their  fathers' 
houses  were  ever  open  for  the  reception 
of  strangers.  Women's  hearts  are  ever 
kind,  and  they  were  moved  with  affection- 
ate interest  when  they  saw  so  grave,  gen- 


tlemanly, and  decent-looking  a  bachelor 
(as  they  feared)  wandering  about,  solitary 
and  alone,  without  a  companion  to  share 
his  sorrows  and  heighten  his  joys. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE    DESCRIPTION    OF    ALAMANCE    CONTINUED 
BV    THE    PARSON. 

The  Rev.  Dr.  Caldwell  and  Hector 
M'Bride  sat  up  late  at  Warden's,  smoking 
their  pipes  and  discussing  various  matters. 
Each  one  displayed  much  learning  and 
acuteness,  and  the  parson  was  so  much 
taken  with  his  new  acquaintance  that,  to. 
induce  him  to  remain  at  Alamance,  he  gave 
the  following  description  of  that  ancient 
community. 

"Alamance,"  said  he,  "was  one  of  the 
first  places  settled  by  the  whites  in  middle 
Carolina.  The  lands  are  fertile,  the  cli- 
mate pleasant,  and  the  country  healthy, 
and  thus  this  section  of  the  state  early  at- 
tracted the  attention  of  emigrants.  Those 
who  came  to  settle  here  were,  generally, 
men  of  character  and  substance,  and  were 
seeking,  not  so  much  to  advance  their 
worldly  fortunes  as  to  promote  their  hap- 
piness, which  was  intimately  connected 
with  the  enjoyment  of  civil  and  religious 
freedom.  They  were  mostly  '  Scotch- 
Irish,'  a  race  of  men  who,  the  world  over, 
have  been  proved  to  be  true  to  their  coun- 
try, to  their  friends,  and  their  principles, 
which  are  always  of  a  liberal  cast.  They 
are  Presbyterians  in  religion,  republicans 
in  their  political  notions,  and  are  ever 
ready  to  fight  or  go  to  the  stake  for  their 
opinions.  Such  were  the  original  inhab- 
itants of  Alamance,  who,  far  removed  from 
cities  and  their  fashionable  follies  and 
vices,  were  distinguished  in  their  man- 
ners by  a  primeval  simplicity,  while  their 
characters  displayed  the  prisca  et  incorrvpla 
fides,  the  incorruptible  integrity,  candour, 
faith,  and  singleness  of  heart  attributed  by 
the  poets  to  a  fabled  pastoral  age.  There 
was  originally  in  the  neighbourhood  (and 
it  is  a  large  one)  but  one  merchant,  and 
not  a  single  trader  at  large,  by  which  last 
term  I  mean  that  sort  of  professional  char- 
acter that  prowls  about  society,  flourishing 
on  the  vices  which  he  propagates,  and  the 
necessities  he  creates.  Nearly  every  fam- 
ily in  the  whole  community  was,  and  even 
now  is,  in  independent  circumstances,  and 
some  are  even  rich.  Still  there  are  no 
grades  and  coteries  in  society  ;  no  parties 
in  politics;  and  no  hostile  religious  sects 
warring  rancourously  on  each  other,  and 
claiming  as  their  object  the  diffusion  of  a 
spirit  of  Christian  philanthropy.  My  par- 
ishioners are  generally  severe  in  their 
judgment  on  themselves,  charitable  to  the 
failings  and  shortcomings  of  others,  ands 
though  frugal  in  their  expenditures,  ever 


12 


ALAMANCE 


ready  to  entertain  the  stranger  and  relieve 
the  necessitous.  It  is,  sir,  a  remarkable 
and  honourable  fact,  that  every  one  in 
my  congregation,  over  ten  years  old,  can 
read  and  write ;  some  are  even  well  read 
in  history  and  the  belles-lettres,  and  in 
every  house  you  are  sure  to  meet  with 
well-thumbed  copies  of  'Fox's  Book  of 
Martvrs,5  '  The  Pilgrim's  Progress,'  'The 
Balm  of  Gilead,'  'The  Rise  and  Progress 
of  Religion  in  the  Soul,1  and  other  kindred 
books.  The  leaving  of  my  people  is  thus 
generally  of  a  theological  character,  and 
the  midwife,  •diA  several  other  good  old  la- 
dies in  my  cure,  could  hold  their  own 
against  the  famous  Aquinas,  and  put  to 
flight  all  the  doctors  of  the  Sorbonne. 
Thus  religious  subjects,  with  tales  of  reli- 
gious persecutions,  of  Indian  massacres, 
and  of  civil  usurpations,  exactions  and  op- 
pressions, while  away  the  winter  evenings 
at  every  fireside,  and  tinge  with  a  devo- 
tional hue  the  sentiments  and  feelings  of 
the  Alamancers.  Our  people,  as  1  have  be- 
fore intimated,  would  make  excellent  re- 
publicans, for  there  is  among  them  a  deep- 
rooted  aversion,  I  may  say  detestation,  of 
every  species  of  tyranny,  and  an  attach- 
ment to  liberty — real,  true,  genuine,  and 
well  regulated  liberty — stronger  than  the 
love  of  life  or  the  fear  of  death.  They 
have  the  virtues  becoming  citizens  of  a 
democracy — that  first-born  hope  of  philan- 
thropy. The  old  men  are  sedate,  just, 
free-hearted,  and  single-hearted,  well  un- 
derstanding their  rights,  thinking  for  them- 
selves, and  extremely  jealous  of  those 
who  cultivate  popularity:  the  matrons  are 
chaste, dutiful,  and  affectionate;  the  maid- 
ens pure,  simple,  artless,  pious,  tender,  and 
beautiful;  and  the  young  men  brave,  in- 
genuous, and  modest.  Among  all  there  is 
no  one  aspiring  to  take  the  lead.  There 
as  none  of  that  restlessness,  that  reaching 
for  family  aggrandizement,  that  desire  of 
change,  which  characterizes  every  com- 
munity, even  in  perfect  democracies. 
There  is  also  another  notable  difference 
between  this  people  and  other  wealthy  set- 
tlements in  this  country — " 

"By  your  leave,"  said  M'Bride,  "I  will 
mention  one  which  I  have  observed." 

"  Certainly,  proceed,"  replied  the  par- 
son. 

"  Well,  then,  you  must  know,"  continued 
M'Bride,  "that  I  came  south  expecting  to 
find  a  different  sort  of  people  than  those 
with  whom  I  have  had  the  honour  of  be- 
coming acquainted.  1  had  heard  much, 
and  1  had  believed  what  I  heard,  of  the  sun- 
ny south,  of  its  simple  virtues,  its  knightly 
courtesies,  and  its  generous  feelings.  I 
found  its  much-boasted,  old-fashioned  hos- 
pitality was  but  a  profuse  and  wasteful 
extravagance,  dictated  by  a  vainglorious 
desire  for  notoriety  ;  its  social  gatherings 
disorderly  routs  ;  its  refinement  consisting 


in  a  contempt  for  all  other  men  and  places, 
and  in  a  supercilious  and  arrogant  assump- 
tion of  infinite  superiority,  and  its  intelli- 
gence limited  to  the  knowledge  of  games, 
and  of  the  histories  and  pedigrees  of  blood- 
horses.  When  I  firstcame  south,  to  a  neigh- 
bouring province,  I  was  honoured  with  an 
invitation  to  a  great  party,  given  by  a  weal- 
thy planter  in  honour  of  the  nuptials  of  his 
son.  It  was  to  take  place  in  midwinter,  and 
for  weeks  before  the  whole  country  was  in 
a  buzz  of  conversation  about  it,  every  body 
appearing  to  be  in  a  state  of  entire  felicity 
at  the  bare  anticipation  of  the  glorious 
enjoyments  of  the  approaching  entertain- 
ment. On  the  day  appointed,  through 
sleet,  and  rain,  and  snow,  1  made  my  way 
to  the  house  of  my  host.  When  I  arrived, 
I  heard  a  great  tumult,  saw  loose  horses 
scampering  about,  carriages  and  gigs  bro- 
ken and  upset,  and  negroes  running  to  and 
fro  in  great  confusion,  some  drunk,  and 
all  beside  themselves  and  unapproachable 
in  their  new-blown  dignities  and  upstart 
importance.  It  appeared  that  every  one 
had  brought  his  own  servant  to  wait  upon 
him  and  represent,  his  dignity,  and,  as  I 
came  alone,  I  was  utterly  neglected,  until, 
wiih  a  handful  of  silver,  I  worked  upon  the 
sympathies  of  the  most  humble-looking 
negro  I  saw,  got  him  to  show  me  to  the 
gentlemen's  dressing-room  and  take  charge 
of  my  horse.  I  was  ushered  into  a  gran- 
ary, warmed  by  a  villainous  old  stove, 
and,  in  the  presence  of  a  parcel  of  roister- 
ing gallants,  who  paid  no  attention  to  me, 
I  arranged  my  dress.  Feeling  myself  pre- 
pared to  be  ushered  into  the  company  of 
the  ladies,  I  followed  the  sound  of  a  fiddle, 
and  found  myself  at  the  door  which  open- 
ed into  the  public  saloon.  As  no  one  met 
me  to  welcome  me  in,  and  as  it  was  rather 
moist  to  wait  long  out  of  doors,  I  follow- 
ed the  example  of  others,  and  was  soon 
wedged  so  tight  in  the  middle  of  the  pas- 
sage, that  I  could  move  in  no  direction, 
and  could  scarcely  turn  my  head.  All 
those  around  me  were  chatting  and  laugh- 
ing like  men  in  hysterics,  making  a  most 
for  lorn  attempt  at  being  perfectly  happy, 
although  some  were  fairly  choked  by  the 
pressure,  some  squeezed  into  a  jelly,  and 
all  fixed  immovably  in  their  stations. 
Through  a  door  on  one  side,  I  saw  into  a 
room,  around  the  sides  of  which  men  and 
women  were  packed  together  as  if  put  up 
for  exportation,  and  in  the  centre  of  which 
some  young  folk  were  dancing,  each  one 
having  about  eight  inches  square  on  which 
to  cut  his  capers.  On  the  other  side  of 
the  passage  was  another  room,  in  which  I 
beheld  a  sea  of  old  ladies'  faces,  solemn, 
prim,  and  proud,  while  their  bodies  were 
so  jammed  together  that  they  looked  like 
one  solid  bale  of  dry-goods  compressed 
into  the  smallest  possible  space.  After  I 
had  got  thoroughly  warmed,  and  even  be- 


ALAMANCE. 


13 


gan  to  perspire,  in  my  position,  I  fe.lt  a 
disposition  to  change  my  location.  Ac- 
cordingly, I  learned  from  a  Christian-look- 
ing gentleman  that  there  were  offices  in 
the  yard  where  married  and  elderly  men 
could  amuse  themselves.  To  one  of  these 
I  went,  and  found  the  tobacco  smoke  as 
thick  as  a  London  fog,  and  the  floor  one 
broad  pool  of  spittle.  I  could  dimly  see 
that  the  bed  was  covered  with  meji,-t-be- 
fireplace  surrounded,  and  that  all  were 
deeply  interested  in  games  of  whist  that 
were  going  briskly  on  at  several  tables, 
which  were  covered  with  decanters  of 
brandy  and  whiskey.  The  other  offices 
I  found  tenanted  in  like  manner,  and  so, 
hungry,  cold,  and—wretched,  I  wandered 
about  without  meeting  a  soul  who  seemed 
to  take  the  slightest  interest  in  me.  That 
night  1  lay,  with  a  great  number  of  others, 
in  the  granary,  and  the  hardest  scuffle  I 
ever  had  was  for  a  single  blanket,  with 
which  I  had  covered,  thereby  depriving 
several  of  the  only  thing  ihey  had  to  in- 
terpose between  themselves  and  the  straw. 
Next  day  I  indulged  in  some  comments 
not  very  eulogistic  of  such  entertainments, 
and  was  stared  at  and  avoided  as  an  ig- 
norant and  ill-bred  booby,  totally  destitute 
of  all  taste  for  refined  and  aristocratic 
amusements.  The  fact  is,  I  was  sadly  de- 
ficient in  their  fashionable  accomplish- 
ments; for,  if  you  will  believe  me,  when 
the  old  ladies  are  good  cooks,  the  old 
gentlemen  deed-players,  the  damsels  un- 
tiring dancers,  and  the  young  gentlemen 
accomplished  fiddlers,  they  consider  them- 
selves as  entitled  to  take  rank  in  the  high- 
est circles.  Indeed,  I  found  they  were  a 
nation  of  fiddlers,  and  in  every  village  and 
hamlet  was  kept  awake  by  an  everlasting 
scraping  of  cat  gut." 

"The  general  features  in  your  picture 
are  true,"  said  the  parson ;  "  but  the  col- 
ours are  too  glaring,  and  the  caricature  too 
great.  As  I  was  going  to  observe,  a  while 
ago,  there  is  a  want  of  polish  among  the 
rich  planters  of  the  South.  There  is  little 
attention  paid  to  the  real  amenities  of  life, 
and  a  fine  scholar  or  well-read  man  is  a 
rara  avis.  Nevertheless,  we  have  the  ma- 
terials—the richest  materials.  The  men 
are  manly,  brave,  and  generous,  the  wom- 
en modest,  chaste,  and  beautiful ;  and  when 
time  and  the  advance  of  education  have 
worn  away  the  vices  incident  to  new 
countries  and  recently  acquired  wealth, 
there  will  be  a  population  and  a  society, 
even  in  the  province  of  which  you  speak, 
not  excelled  by  any  in  the  world.     Now 

1  Alamance  has  already  made  considerable 
progress,  and  is  as  free  from  southern  ex- 
travagance and  pomposity  as  from  northern 
avarice  and  venality.  Still  human  nature 
is  the  same  in  all  ages  and  countries,  and 
not  more  naturally  does  the  decaying  car- 
cass produce  and  attract  .vultures  and  ob- 


scene vermin  than  do  communities  of  men 
bring  together,  in  the  course  of  time,  sharp- 
ers and  speculators,  who  reap  a  golden 
harvest-  from  the  follies  they  foster  and  the 
distresses  they  produce,  as  I  before  ob- 
served. Some  few  of  these  have  lately 
found  their  way  to  Alamance,  and,  though 
they  wear  sheep's  clothing,  1  have  more 
than  once  heard  the  howl  of  the  wolf  and 
the  cry  of  his  victim.  But  this  is  not  the 
worst — Cicero  says  that  whatsoever  is 
against  nature  is  contrary  to  happiness. 
Now,  before  the  time  of  Nimrod,  that 
mighty  hunter  of  men — yea,  even  in  the 
days  of  our  first  mother,  Eve,  a  certain 
feud  commenced.  To  speak  after  the 
manner  of  the  heathen,  Nature  was  the 
first  goddess — the  original  queen  of  men 
and  brutes.  Her  undisputed  reign  was 
shorter  than  the  golden  one  of  Saturn, 
for  soon  her  empire  was  disturbed  by  the 
pretensions  of  a  rival.  Fashion  arose,  and, 
laying  claim  to  universal  dominion,  she 
soon  won  followers,  and  her  power  and 
influence  have  been  steadily  increasing. 
Like  all  aspiring  rebels,  this  latter  affects 
to  be  exactly  and  in  all  things  the  opposite 
of  her  rival,  and  indeed  there  is  between 
them  the  broadest  difference.  The  one, 
with  a  cheek  like  the  first  purple  blushes 
of  the  early  dawn,  an  eye  like  the  morning 
star,  a  step  like  that  of  the  startled  fawn, 
and  a  voice  like  the  dove's  in  spring-time, 
retreats  timidly  to  her  sylvan  covert,  where 
her  votaries  find  her,  like  Eve  before  the 
fall,  '  The  fairest  of  her  daughters,'  chaste, 
simple,  tender, 'and  constant.  '  Her  chil- 
dren arise  and  call  her  blessed  ;  strength 
and  honor  are  her  clothing.'  The  other, 
bedizened  with  tawdry  lace,  blazing  with 
jewels,  and  blushing  with  paint,  with  a 
brazen  front,  and  a  form  tortured  into  a 
shape  more  uncouth  than  that  of  any  mon- 
ster of  the  deep,  flaunts  along  the  highways 
and  the  crowded  streets,  and  is  heard  and 
seen  in  the  ball-room  and  the  theatre,  with 
a  voice  like  the  siren's,  and  an  eye  that 
lures  to  destruction.  Giddy,  fickle,  and 
whimsical  in  her  notions  ;  lascivious  and 
wanton  in  her  manners  ;  and  gross,  bestial, 
and  vulgar  in  her  ways,  she.  amuses  her- 
self at  the  expense  of  her  followers,  mak- 
ing them  perform  all  sorts  of  antics,  trans- 
form themselves  into  the  vilest  shapes, 
and  martyrize  themselves  in  various  ways 
to  show  their  contempt  of  Nature.  And 
as  this  latter  makes  even  brutes  respect- 
able, so  the  former  would  degrade  men  and 
women  below  the  beasts  of  the  field." 

"  By  my  soul,  that  was  truly  and  happi- 
ly said!"  exclaimed  M'Bride. 

"  Such,"  continued  the  parson,  "  are  the 
rival  queens.  Nature  for  a  long  time  had 
undisputed  sway  at  Alamance ;  but  some 
of  our  travelled  young  gentlemen  have 
lately  been  to  the  cities,  where  they  saw 
and  fell  desperately  in  love  with  Fashioa. 


14 


ALAMANCE. 


She  has,  therefore,  a  few  proselytes  of  both 
sexes  among  us,  for  I  have  recently  no- 
ticed some  uncouth  and  frightful  appari- 
tions, sprinkled  through  my  congregation. 
As  I  am  a  Christian  man,  1  nearly  lost  my 
gravity  in  the  pulpit ;  for  I  could  not  banish 
the  fancy  that  I  was  preaching  to  a  set  of 
peripatetic  baboons  and  solemn  monkeys. 
These  fashionables,  however,  made  an  un- 
favourable impression,  and  have  been  so 
ridiculed,  that  I  trust  that  they  are  heart- 
ily ashamed  of  themselves,  and  will  again 
assume  the  shapes  and  follow  the  habits 
of  civilized  human  creatures.  They  have, 
I  believe,  Nebuchadnezzarized  (to  coin  a 
word)  long  enough,  and  will  henceforth  be 
satisfied  with  their  lot,  as  members  of  the 
human  family." 

"  God  grant  they  may,"  said  Hector 
M'Bride,  "  but  I  doubt  it.  I  am  half  in- 
clined to  believe  in  the  doctrine  of  Pyth- 
agoras, with,  however,  this  modification  : 
that  the  soul,  instead  of  actually  migrat- 
ing, assumes  an  affinity  to  that  of  various 
beasts,  and  that  the  body  endeavours  to 
conform  itself  to  these  changes.  Thus,  I 
have  known  a  man  to  be  transmuted  suc- 
cessively from  bear  to  puppy,  from  puppy 
to  monkey,  and  from  monkey  to  ass. 
Some  men  have  an  inherent  tendency 
downward  ;,and  I  can  scarcely  believe  the 
aggregate  human  family  are  advancing  in 
civilization,  when  I  consider  what  a  large 
majority  of  individuals  seem  to  grow  worse 
as  they  grow  older." 

"  Perhaps,"  answered  the"  parson,  "  you 
generalize  too  much.  It's  a  dangerous 
habit — but,  to  change  the  subject :  What 
say  you  to  an  experiment  of  your  theory 
about  teaching  at  Alamance?" 

"  I  am  willing,  with  all  my  heart,"  re- 
turned M'Eride ;  "  for  I  like  the  people, 
from  your  description." 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE    OLD-FIELD    SCHOOL. 

In  former  times,  the  Old-Field  School 
was  an  institution  of  learning  known  to 
and  patronized  by  the  highest  and  lowest 
in  every  part  of  the  country.  How  it  got 
its  name  is  a  subject  for  conjecture.  Some 
are  of  opinion  that  it  was  given  in  deri- 
sion, to  show  that  there  is  no  affinity  be- 
tween such  places  and  the  great  Academia 
of  Plato,  which  was  in  the  midst  of  a  shady 
grove,  while  others  derive  it  from  the  prox- 
imity of  these  country-schools  to  fields 
worn  out  and  unenclosed.  Be  the  origin 
of  its  name  what  it  may,  it  is  certain  that 
this  institution  bore  little  resemblance  to 
the  modern  academy,  and  perhaps  still 
less  to  the  ancient.  It  was  never  a  bant- 
ling of  the  Government,  State  or  Federal, 
which,  for  the  good  of  both,  knew  it  not ; 
and,  not  being  incorporated,  it  was  happily 


freed  from  the  fostering  care  of  an  enlight- 
ened board  of  fat  trustees,  under  whose 
judicious  management  the  cause  of  educa- 
tion fares  about  as  well  as  would  the  ma- 
chinery of  a  modern  steam-mill,  when  con- 
trolled by  a  body  of  learned  mandarins. 
No  such  nuisance  was  ever  known  to  the 
Old-Field  School,  nor  was  it  ever  subject 
tg  sectarian  influences,  or  affected  by  the 
politfCal  disputes  of  tbe  country  ;  and  from 
it,  therefore,  humble  as  it  often  was,  flow- 
ed a  stream  of  morals  and  literature  whose 
pure  waters  have  refreshed  and  blessed 
the  country.  At  Alamance  the  qualifica- 
tions of  the  master  were  tested  by  an  ex- 
amination by  the  pardon  and  others  best 
qualified  to  judge  ;  and  it  is  to  be  observed, 
that  the  fact  of  being  a  leading  politician,  or 
of  holding  a  commission  to  be  a  justice  of 
the  peace,  no  more  made  a  man  a  scholar 
than  did  the  possession  of  land  and  negroes 
render  him  a  gentleman.  Once  installed 
into  office,  the  master  was  subject  to  the 
control  of  no  impertinent  intermeddlers, 
and,  being  absolute  monarch  in  his  little 
kingdom,  he  governed  it  according  to  his 
own  conscience  and  discretion,  and  with- 
out favour  or  partiality.  The  teacher  out 
of  school  was  the  equal,  the  companion, 
and  Mentor  of  his  pupils;  and  hence,  be- 
tween him  and  them  there  was  not  that 
awful  and  impassable  gulf  which  now  sep- 
arates professor  and  student,  and  renders 
them  the  implacable  and  hereditary  ene- 
mies of  each  other.  The  master,  to  diffuse 
the  benefits  of  his  conversation,  and  to 
prevent  imputations  of  undue  favour  to 
any,  was  the  guest  of  all  his  patrons,  with 
each  of  whom  he  boarded  and  lodged  by 
turns,  and  in  the  families  of  all  of  whom 
he  was  an  honoured  member.  It  was  con- 
sidered important  that  he  should  have  at 
least  a  moderate  share  of  common  sense; 
he  was  believed  to  be  subject  to  human 
sympathies  and  mortal  feelings,  and  hence, 
out  of  school  was  regarded  as  a  man  and 
a  Christian,  and  in  all  neighbourhood  affairs 
had  "  a  voice  potential." 

In  those  Arcadian  times,  the  boys  and 
girls  were  supposed  to  belong  to  the  same 
human  family,  and  were  so  brought  up  and 
educated  together  as  to  be  the  friends  of 
each  other.  Thus,  an  honourable  emula- 
tion was  excited,  the  confinement  of  study 
rendered  pleasant,  and  the  young  people 
relieved  from  that  fatal  curiosity  to  pene- 
trate the  mystery  thrown  around  the  other 
sex,  which  now  absorbs  the  entire  atten- 
tion of  students. 

Such  was  the  general  character  of  the 
Old-Field  School,  and  it  remains  only  to 
notice  some  particulars  connected  with 
that  of  Alamance.  Hector  M'Bride  having 
been  chosen  as  the  teacher,  many  vague 
rumours  about  him  got  into  circulation 
among  the  children — some  representing 
him  as  very  mild,  and  others  as  extremely 


ALAMANCE. 


15 


expert  at  the  use  of  the  birch.  His  merits 
were  talked  over  and  discussed  at  length, 
and  no  satisfactory  conclusion  having  been 
arrived  at,  all  determined  to  wait  till  they 
had  tried  him.  On  the  day  of  commence- 
ment, the  scholars,  all  in  new  suits,  were 
early  at  the  school-house,  and  having  in- 
troduced themselves  or  been  introduced  by 
their  fathers  to  the  master,  this  latter  took 
down  their  names.  Having  next  critically 
examined  each  one,  he  arranged  them  in 
classes,  and  assigned  them  to  their  stud- 
ies, putting  many  into  branches  that  they 
had  long  ago  passed  over,  remarking  that 
it  was  better  to  know  one  thing  well  than 
half-a-dozen  badly.  This  done,  he  made 
an  address,  laying  down  the  principles  on 
which  he  should  conduct  the  school,  and 
thereupon  read  a  long  list  of  rules,  com- 
menting on  and  explaining  each  one  sepa- 
rately. They  were  divided  into  three 
heads,  and  concerned  the  morals,  the  man- 
ners, and  the  studies  of  his  students.  As 
these  iules  are  still  preserved  among  the 
master's  papers,  and  may  prove  interest- 
ing to  pedagogues,  a  few  of  them  are  here 
given,  with  the  number  of  each  prefixed  : 


10. 

11. 

\j   20. 

v  •»■ 

\/23. 

r 

v 25- 

N/-30. 

s/  31. 
V/  33. 
\/  35. 


The  punishments  shall  consist  of  whipping,  slap- 
ping in  the  hand  with  the  rule,  riding  the  ass, 
and  expulsion,  according  to  the  gravity  of  the 
offence. 

All  the  boys  and  girls  may  laugh,  without  noise, 
when  any  one  is  mounted  on  the  ass ;  but  no 
one  shall  speak  to  him,  or  make  gestures  or 
ugly  mouths  at  him,  in  token  of  derision. 

When  the  master  tells  an  anecdote  the  students 
are  not  bound  to  laugh  immoderately,  though 
it  will  be  considered  respectful  to  give  some 
indication  of  their  being  pleased  or  amused. 

Whenever  one  enters  or  leaves  the  house,  if  a 
boy  he  shall  bow,  and  if  a  girl  courtesy,  to  the 
master,  and  when  a  stranger  comes  in  all  shall 
rise  and  do  the  same  towards  him. 

When  the  boys  meet  a  stranger  on  the  road  they 
must  take  off  their  hats  and  bow  :  they  are  en- 
joined to  be,  on  all  occasions,  respectful  and 
attentive  to  their  seniors,  and  not  to  talk  in 
their  presence,  except  when  bidden. 

Every  boy  shall  consult  the  comfort  and  conve- 
nience of  the  girls  before  his  own,  and  whoever 
is  caught  standing  between  a  female  and  the 
fire  shall  be  whipped. 

If  any  boy  is  caught  laughing  at  the  homeliness 
of  a  girl,  or  calling  her  ugly  names,  he  shall 
ride  on  the  ass. 

Giggles  are  detestable,  and  when  a  girl  is  amus- 
ed she  must  smile  gracefully,  or  laugh  out ;  and 
if  the  master  catches  any  one  snickering  he 
will  imitate  and  reprimand  her  in  presence  of 
the  whole  school. 

Every  offender,  when  called  on,  must  fully  in- 
form on  himself,  remembering,  that  by  telling 
the  truth  he  palliates  his  offence. 

When  the  master's  rule  falls  at  the  feet  of  any 
one,  he  and  all  his  guilty  associates  must  come 
with  it  to  the  teacher. 

The  master  will  inflict  on  every  common  in- 
former the  punishment  due,  to  the  offence  of 
which  he  maliciously  gives  information. 

As  it  is  God  who  gives  the  mind,  and  as  he  has 
bestowed  more  on  some  than  on  others,  it  shall 
be  considered  a  grave  offence  to  laugh  at  or 
ridicule^iny  one  who  is  by  nature  dull  or  stu- 
pid, such  persons  being  entitled  to  general  com- 
miseration rather  than  contempt. 


WJThe  girls  must  remember  that  the  exemptions 
V  to  which  their  sex  entitles  them  are  to  be  used 
as  a  shield,  and  not  as  a  sword  ;  and  they  are 
therefore  enjoined  to  eschew  the  abominable 
and  unlady-like  habit  of  indulging  in  sarcasms 
and  attempted  wit  at  the  expense  of  the  boys. 
Whenever  a  girl  loses  the  docility,  gentleness, 
and  benignity  of  manners  becoming  her  sex, 
,she  forfeits  her  title  to  the  forbearance  and  def- 
/  erential  courtesy  of  the  males. 

<6J^No  one  shall,  out  of  school,  speak  disrespect-' 
fully  of  the  master,  or  of  a  fellow-student. 

4y>./Wo  one  shall  ridicule,  laugh  at,  or  make  re- 
^inarks  about  the  dress  of  another  ;  the  boys  are 
enjoined  to  be  kind  and  courteous  to  the  girls, 
the  girls  to  be  neat  and  cleanly  in  their  dresses, 
and  all  to  act  as  if  they  were  brothers  and  sis- 
ters, the  children  of  the  same  parents. 

50.  Let  the  words  of  The  Preacher  be  held  in  con- 
stant remembrance,  "  Remember  now  thy  Cre- 
ator in  the  days  of  thy  youth,"  &c;,  &c. 

Such  are  a  few  of  the  many  rules  which 
the  master  declared  he  would  read  publicly 
once  a  month,  and  each  one  of  which  he 
said  he  would  rigidly  enforce,  remarking 
that  it  was  better  to  have  no  laws  than 
good  ones  not  strictly  obeyed. 

The  punishment  of  riding  on  the  ass  was 
generally  inflicted  for  long-continued  and. 
gross  neglect  of  study,  vulgarity  of  man- 
ners, and  insults  to  the  girls,  and  was  as 
follows  : — The  culprit,  with  a  large  pair  of 
leather  spectacles  on  his  nose  and  a  paper 
capon  h is  head,  with  the  inscription  "Fool's 
Cap,"  in  Roman  letters,  was  mounted  a- 
straddle  one  of  the  joists,  being  assisted  up 
by  a  few  cuts  of  the  master's  switch,  which 
sometimes  played,  at  intervals,  across 
his  legs  during  the  hour  that  he  held  his 
seat.  This  punishment  was  only  inflicted 
on  the  males,  and  was  considered  as  so 
disgraceful  that  it  was  rarely  merited,  and. 
when  imposed  attached  a  stigma  to  the 
culprit,  which  affected  his  standing  in  and 
out  of  school,  for  a  long  time  afterwards. 

Having  thus  got  his  school  under  way, 
the  master,  to  inspire  at  once  an  affection, 
for  him  as  a  man,  as  well  as  respect  as  a 
teacher,  dismissed  his  students  for  recre- 
ation, went  with  them  to  the  old  field, 
helped  to  lay  off  the  play-ground,  and  dis- 
cussed with  them  the  various  kinds  of 
sports,  teaching  them,  by  explanations  and 
practical  illustrations,  many  new  ones, 
which  were  considered  highly  interesting. 
Thus  in  the  morning  he  at  once  establish- 
ed for  himself  a  high  character  as  a  scholar 
and  disciplinarian;  by  noon  he  was  the 
fast  friend  of  every  scholar  he  had,  and 
that  evening  boys  and  girls  went  home 
perfectly  delighted  with  their  new  teacher, 
and  feeling  an  emulous  desire  to  excel  in 
their  studies  which  they  had  never  felt  be-»J 
fore.  In  a  word,  the  master  was,  in  each* 
scholar's  eye,  the  very  perfection  of  a 
man,  and  to  be  like  him  was  the  highest 
ambition  of  all.  > 

After  this  auspicious  beginning,  we  will  > 
now  leave,  for  a  season,  the  master  and  his 
little  kingdom. 


16 


ALAMANCE. 


CHAPTER  .IV. 


A    VISIT   TO    THE    OLD-FIELD   SCHOOL. 

The  school-house  at  Alamance  was  a 
neat  log-building,  situated  in  the  skirt  of 
a  thick  wood,  with  a  large,  old  field  in 
front.  Those  who  were  studying  the 
higher  branches  were  permitted  to  get 
their  lessons  out  of  doors  ;  and  hence,  as 
we  approach  we  see  faces,  male  and  fe- 
male, peeping  at  us  from  behind  the  sunny 
side  of  every  fallen  tree.  We  enter,  and 
the  whole  'school  simultaneously  rising, 
but  keeping  their  eyes  on  their  books,  the 
boys  dip  their  heads  forward,  the  girls 
courtesy,  and  again  take  their  seats;  the 
master,  who  is  hearing  a  class  recite,  po- 
litely bowing  us  to  a  vacant  bench.  We, 
^jbeing  strangers,  our  arrival  is  the  occa- 
sion of  an  energetic  application  to  study, 
signified  by  an  emulous  effort  to  see  who 
can  bawl  the  loudest  and  the  fastest.  With 
every  variety  of  note,  and  in  every  possi- 
ble key,  and  (with  a  sort  of  modulated  ca- 
dence or  chant,  they  sing  over  their  les- 
sons, making  a  not  unpleasant  melody, 
and  one  which  is  passing  sweet  to  the 
master's  ears.  There,  in  a  corner,  with 
his  short  legs  hooked  together  under  the 
bench,  and  the  big  tears  still  moist  on  his 
swollen  cheeks,  sits  a  lately-flagellated 
urchin,  who,  in  the  midst  of  his  sorrows, 
does  not  forget  the  proper  sing-song  tone, 
as  he  sobs  out,  with  long  intervening 
pauses,  the  letters  of  his  alphabet.  Just 
by  him,  and  swaying  to  and  fro  on  her 
seat,  like  one  exercised  at  a  camp-meet- 
ing by  religious  influences,  sits  a  girl  hum- 
ming over  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount,  and 
interjecting  alternately  an  "  «m"  and  an 
"aA"  at  the  end  of  every  sentence,  while 
on  all  sides  the  operations  of  figures  and 
the  results  of  additions,  subtractions,  mul- 
tiplications, and  divisions,  are  announced 
as  if  they  were  set  to  musici  At  the  end 
opposite  the  fire  is  the  writing-bench,  a 
long  slab,  supported  by  pins  driven  under  it 
into  the  wall,  and  lighted  by  a  narrow  win- 
dow, whose  shutter  is  a  plank  swung  on 
leather  hinges.  Here,  with  their  rounded 
backs  to  us,  their  arms  spread  out  in  wide 
ellipses,  their  foreheads  knit  and  frowning, 
and  their  mouths  working  and  twisting 
with  every  motion  of  their  pens,  are  some 
eight  or  ten  making  desperate  efforts  to 
counterfeit  their  copy  ;  and  there,  encir- 
cling the  teacher,  stands  the  grammar- 
class,  reciting  their  lessons  and  pinching 
and  sticking  pins  into  each  other's  backs 
and  elbows.  A  dense  crowd  is  swaying  to 
and  fro  in  front  of  the  blazing  fire,  the 
"duts"  pushing  hard  to  get  in,  and  the 
"ins,"  whose  linsey-woolseys  are  scorch- 
ing, making  desperate  efforts  to  get  out. 
More  than  one  coy  lass  is  peeping  at  us 
over  the  top  of  her  book,  and  little  strips 
of  paper  are  constantly  and  mysteriously 


flitting  about,  from  the  male  to  the  female- 
benches  and  back  again,  and  yet  no  one  is 
seen  to  throw  them.  The  manner  of  each 
one,  as  he  takes  t lie  pass  to  go  out,  or 
hangs  it  up  on  his  return,  excites  a  smile 
in  which  the  master  sometimes  joins.  This 
is  more 'especially  the  case  when  a  white- 
haired  urchin  pitches  his  head  forward  as 
if  he  would  snap  it  off,  or  some  tall  gawk, 
with  his  eye  fixed  on  his  sweetheart,  in 
scraping  one  foot  backwards  and  bending 
his  body  forwards,  loses  his  balance  and 
pitches  on  all-fours  into  the  middle  of  the 
room.  In  the  farthermost  corner  of  the 
house  we  observe  a  knot  of  little  fellows 
who  are  totally  oblivious  of  all  going  on 
around  them,  and  are  making  themselves 
extremely  merry  over  the  master's  por- 
trait rudely  sketched  on  a  slate,  and  to 
which  each  one  gives  a  touch  with  his 
pencil.  They  are  not  unseen  by  a  watch- 
ful eye,  and  suddenly  their  amusement  is 
interrupted  by  the  well-aimed  rule,  the  fall 
of  which  at  their  feet  startles  them  from 
their  seats,  as  if  a  thunderbolt  had  struck 
in  their  midst.  The  slate  is  instantly  laid 
down  with  the  likeness  still  on  it,  and  the 
artists,  trembling  with  fear  and  blushing 
with  shame  at  the  consciousness  of  being 
gazed  at  by  all  the  school,  hide  their  faces 
with  their  books,  the  more  timid  beginning 
to  whimper,  while  the  stout-hearted  look 
down"  on  the  emblem  of  justice  in  sulky 
silence.  '■  Prnxirnus.  the  next  class  !"  cries 
a  voice  of  authority,  and  as  the  ring  round 
the  master  is  cleared,  there  is  an  instant 
scampering  from  near  the  fire,  a  few  cuts 
of  the  master's  rod  hastening  the  flight  of 
the  fugitives ;  books  that  were  thrown  aside 
are  hastily  resumed,  some  with  the  wrong 
end  upward,  and  several  gay  Lotharios 
slide  softly  away  from  the  ends  of  the 
benches  next  to  the  girls.  When  this  sec- 
ond class  have  finished  their  recitation,  the 
master,  with  a  severe  gravity,  calls  out, 
"  Bring  me  the  rule."  There  is  a  dead 
silence  for  a  minute,  the  boys  marked  out 
for  execution  hanging  their  heads  and  sad- 
ly gazing  on  the  fatal  instrument.  "  Bring 
me  my  rule,  I  say,"  repeats  the  master, 
"  and  that  slate  !"  The  boldest  of  the  cul- 
prits now  taking  hold  of  the  rule  as  if  it 
were  a  snake,  and  slowly  edging  himself  off 
his  seat,  marches  up  to  the  master,  followed 
by  all  his  guilty  associates,  one  of  whom 
carries  the  slate.  "  When  you  draw  my 
likeness  again,"  says  the  master,  "you 
must  do  it  better.  This  is  a  miserable 
botch,  for  which,  and  for  your  laughing, 
you  are  punished."  So  saying,  he  takes 
the  hand  of  each  and  gives  it  a  few  gentle 
taps,  whereby  the  whole  school  is  stimu- 
lated to  renewed  industry,  the  din  of  study 
rising  at  least  a  key  higher  at  every  slap. 
At  length  is  heard  that  sound,  of  all  others 
the  most  pleasant  to  a  school-boy's  ears, 
"  Shut  up  books  for  play."    All  is  instant. 


ALAMANCE. 


IT 


excitement,  confusion,  and  change  —  the 
master  descending  from  his  dignity,  and 
the  scholar  throwing  off  his  reverence. 
Hats,  bonnets  and  baskets  are  snatched 
from  the  wooden  hooks  that  stud  the  walls, 
smd  the  master  is  soon  surrounded  by  a 
bevy  of  lively,  chattering  girls,  with  rose- 
tinted  cheeks,  asking  him  questions,  prof- 
fering presents,  and  insisting,  each  one, 
on  his  dining  with  her.  Leaving  these 
and  the  smaller  lads  by  the  fire,  we  will 
follow  to  the  old  field  the  larger  boys,  who, 
with  biscuits  and  slices  of  bacon  in  their 
hands,  have  hurried  off,  with  a  wild  clatter, 
to  the  playground. 

It  seems  they  are  not  for  sport  to-day, 
for  on  the  farther  side  of  the  field,  where  the 
sedge  is  highest  and  the  sun  is  warmest, 
they  have  clustered  together,  and,  appa- 
rently, are  engaged  in  some  mysterious 
and  important  discussion.  As  we  near 
them  we  find  that  a.  treasonable  plot  is 
hatching  against  some  one  whose  name 
is  not  mentioned.  One,  like  Moloch,  is 
for  "War,  deadly  war;"  another  recom- 
mends the  experiment  of  a  cold  bath  in 
a  neighbouring  stream  ;  while  a  third  is 
decidedly  of  opinion  that  the  individual  in 
question  should  be  tied  with  his  back  to 
the  bench,  and  left  to  cool  in  the  open  a^r. 
At  length,  and  at  the  same  time,  several 
voices  call  for  the  opinion  of  the  judge — 
and  in  the  person  referred  to  we  recog- 
nize our  old  acquaintance,  Henry  Warden, 
whose  fair  skin,  small,  white  hand,  and 
slender  form  seem  to  indicate  that  nature 
had,  indeed,  designed  him  for  the  ermine 
and  the  council-room  rather  than  for  the 
rough  scenes  of  the  tented  field.  He  owed 
his  soubriquet,  however,  not  so  much  to  his 
physical  constitution  as  to  his  habits  of 
thinking  and  meditating  alone,  and  to  the 
clearness  and  comprehensiveness  of  his 
judgments.  All  now  listened  respectfully 
to  his  opinion  as  he  modestly,  but  forcibly 
unfolded  his  views. 

"I  think  there  is  a  middle  course,"  said 
he,  "  by  which  we  can  gain  our  ends  with- 
out using  violence  or  showing  any  cow- 
ardice. We  all  know  he  is  a  worthy  man, 
and  we  ought  not,  therefore,  to  use  rough 
measures  unless  we  are  compelled."' 

"  But  if  we  miss  this  chance,"  answered 
a  stouter  boy,  named  William  Glutson, 
«'  we  may  never  get  such  another  opportu- 
nity.   I  tell  you  I'm  for  fun." 

"  There's  not  much  fun  or  courage  ei- 
ther in  cruelty,"  retorted  the  judge. 

*'  And  who  taught  you  so  much  about 
courage  ?"  asked  Glutson. 

"That's  my  opinion,"  replied  the  judge, 
"  and  I've  often  heard  my  mother  say  the 
same  thing." 

"  That  settles  the  question,"  said  Glut- 
son,  with  a  sneer;  when  the  judge,  with 
flashing  eyes,  demanded  what  he  meant. 

"No  disrespect,"  answered  Glutson, 
B 


"only  I  thought  and  meant  that  you  and 
the  ladies  are  competent  judges  in  such 
matters." 

"  Not  so  good  as  Mr.  Glutson."  said  the 
judge,  "who  will  be  as  terrible  to  an 
armed  enemy  as  he  is  gentle  and  accept- 
able to  the  girls." 

It  was  now  Glutson's  time  to  ask  an  ex- 
planation, which  he  did  with  a  sharp  voice 
and  flushed  cheek ;  and  the  judge,  in  mak- 
ing it,  remarked, 

"  I  mean,  if  you  are  brave  then  bullies 
are  much  belied.  Do  you  wish  further  in- 
formation as  to  my  opinion  V 

Glutson,  without  replying  directly  to  the 
questioner,  turned  to  the  other  boys  and 
observed,  that  he  "  wished  to  hear  no  more 
of  the  sage  opinions  of  the  heroic  judge, 
or  of  his  very  judicious  mamma." 

Henry's  eyes  again  flashed,  and  his 
whole  frame  quivered  with  emotion,  when 
Ben  Kust  interfered  to  put  an  end  to  the 
quarrel.  Ben,  who  was  about  the  age  of 
Glutson,  was  a  universal  peace-maker, 
never  being  able  to  endure  to  see  a  fight,  in 
which  he  was  not  a  party  militant.  His 
frame  was  short,  compact,  and  muscular, 
his  chest  full,  round,  and  broad,  while  his 
large,  bushy  head  seemed  to  sprout  out 
immediately  from  between  his  shoulders 
without  the  intervention  of  a  neck :  a 
clear,  blue  eye,  a  large,  but  rather  short  or 
snub  nose,  and  a  wide  mouth,  filled  with 
powerful  teeth,  were  the  ornaments  of  a 
face  so  formed  by  nature  as  to  be  incapa- 
ble of  any  other  expression  than  that  of 
good  humour.  It  was  the  decided  opinion 
of  this  interesting  worthy,  emphatically 
expressed,  that  both  the  judge  and  Bill 
Glutson  were  "too  tall  for  their  inches  by 
considerably  upwards  of  a  jugful,"  and 
that  they  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  them- 
selves for  showing  so  much  temper.  "  You, 
judge,"  continued  he,  "  are  too  cussed 
smart;  your  wit  shaves  like  a  new-hoiled 
razor,  and  you  know  Bill  wants  his  bristles 
to  grow  long.  As  for  you,  Billy,  my  son, 
don't  let  me  ketch  you  growlin  agin  at  a 
smaller  boy  when  your  uncle  is  about.  If 
I  do,  my  Christin  friend,  you  won't  know 
what  hurt  you.  I  have  a  notion — that  is 
to  say,  my  foot  has  a  notion — any  how,  to 
kick  you  till  your  nose  bleeds  ;  but,  hows- 
ever,  jine  hands,  both  of  you,  and  make 
friends." 

"  1  am  not  hypocrite  enough  for  that," 
said  the  judge. 

"And  I,"  said  Glutson,  "  don't  care  who 
knows  I  hate  him." 

"  Well,  well,  my  Christin  friends,"  re- 
joined Ben,  "it's  a  free  country,  and  you 
can  do  as  you  please  about  that,  providin, 
you  listen  to  what  your  uncle  says.  I  now 
lay  down  the  law,  that  there  must  be  no 
more  quarrels  or  fusses  till  the  grand  bat- 
tle is  over ;  and  all  on  you,  like  dutiful 
subjects,  must  jine  in  and  make  common 


18 


ALAMANCE. 


cause  agin  the  common  enemy.  I'm 
your  captin-gineral  and  brigadier-in-chief, 
and  1  declare  for  the  judge's  opinion. 
We'll  go  accordin  to  sarcumstances,  and 
be  no  harder  nor  the  natur  of  the  case  de- 
mands ;  and  reinember  you  must  all  be  on 
the  ground  bright  and  airly  to-morrow 
monun,  armed  and  equipped  as  the  law 
directs,  and  wilh  ropes,  catapults,  torna- 
does, and  all  the  ingines  of  war;  and  now 
this  court-martial  is  dismissed,  viva  voce, 
nunc  pro  tunc  and  E  pluribus  unum,  as  old 
Proximus  says." 

Having  delivered  this  speech,  standing 
and  with  great  gravity,  solemnly  empha- 
sizing the  Latin  words,  and  particularly 
rolling  out  the  last  ones  with  deep  and 
swelling  tones,  Ben  whirled  a  summerset, 
gave  a  shout,  and,  followed  by  the  others, 
started  in  a  run  for  the  play-ground.  As 
he  came  up  he  was  violently  contended  for 
by  the  captains  of  the  play  :  and  to  settle 
the  matter  they  cast  lots  by  throwing 
"cross  and  pile,"  as  it  was  called,  for  the 
first  choice.  The  new  hands  were  then  di- 
vided off;  but  the  judge,  who  was  moody, 
made  the  game  unequal  by  refusing  to  play. 
Edith  Mayfield,  who  was  on  the  bthor  side, 
withdrew  also  from  the  play,  alleging  that 
she  waslired  ;  and  the  numbers  on  the  op- 
posing sides  being  equal,  the  sport  went 
briskly  on. 

"  See,"  said  the  sweet-voiced  girl  above 
named,  as  she  sat  down  by  the  judge,  "see 
how  the  ball  has  blistered  my  hand." 

The  blister  was  hardly  visible  to  the 
naked  eye,  but  the  hand  was  a  very  white 
and  tender  little  one,  and  the  judge  must 
needs  take  it  gently  in  both  of  his,  exam- 
ine it  very  attentively,  and  hold  it  to  as- 
suage its  pain. 

"  Does  it  hurt  much]"  asked  he,  as  he 
handled  it  with  the  most  tender  care. 

"  Not  very  much  now,"  answered  Edith, 
looking  up  into  his  face  with  a  smile  that 
made  him  forget  his  sorrows  ;  "  it  was  very 
painful,  but  it's  nearly  cured.  How  I  do 
despise- Will  Glutson!" 

"  Why,  what  has  he  had  to  do  with  your 
hand  *"  asked  the  judge,  in  surprise. 

"  He  has  had  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  re- 
plied Edith,  "  and  never  shall  ;  for  I  can 
never  endure  to  shake  hands  with  him 
again.*' 

"  Has  he  offended  you,  Edith'!" 

Not  knowing  exactly  what  to  say,  afraid 
to  tell  the  truih,  and  still  more  afraid  of 
telling  an  untruth,  Edith  remained  silent. 

"  Tell  me,  Edith,"  continued  the  judge, 
becoming  excited,  "tell  nie  what  he  has 
done  to  you." 

"  He  has  done  nothing  to  me,"  she  an- 
swered, and  again  paused,  with  her  eyes 
bent  on  the  ground.  "  I  know  he's  a  cow- 
ard," she  at  length  continued. 

"And  why  do  you  think  so1?"  inquired 
Henry. 


"  I  don't  know  exactly,"  answered  Edith ; 
"but  1  always  thought  so.  He's  always 
laughing  at  the  girls  for  being  timid,  im- 
posing on  the  smaller  boys,  and  is  very 
cruel  to  the  servants." 

"  Your  test  is  a  good  one,"  said  the 
judge  ;  "  but  see,  the  master  is  going  to 
call  to  books." 

The  judge,  who  never  desired  any  one 
to  side  with  him  in  a  quarrel,  determined 
that  evening  to  be  miserable,  but  h;-;d  to 
abandon  his  resolution;  for  he  felt  that 
his  face  was  constantly  shone  upon  by 
the  tender  eyes  of  Edith,  and  whenever  he 
looked  at  her,  and  this  was  not  seldom,  she 
would  smile  in  such  a  way  that  it  was  im- 
possible not  to  feel  entirely  happy,  even 
in  spite  of  himself. 

The  hour  for  being  spelled  arrived  at 
last,  and  all  the  scholars,  except  a  few 
very  small  ones,  took  their  stand  in  a  row 
extending  round  two  sides  of  the  room. 
Next  to  the  fire  was  "  the  head"  or  post  of 
highest  honour,  and  by  the  door  was  "  the  / 
foot"  or  lowest  rank.  In  the  school  of 
Alamance  the  merit  of  each  scholar  was  \ 
estimated  by  the  rank  he  held  when  the  \ 
school  was  "spelled  ;"  and  on  their  return  ' 
at  night,  the  first  information  given  by  the 
children  to  their  parents  was  in  regard  to 
the  number  which  they  stood.  Each  stu- 
dent always  remembered  his  place,  and 
took  it  without  confusion.  On  the  even- 
ing to  which  we  have  alluded,  Henry  War- 
den, as  was  usual,  stood  head.  Edith  May- 
field  occupied  her  accustomed  place,  and 
Ben  Rust,  as  was  very  unusual,  stood  third. 
He  got  there  by  accident  several  days  be- 
fore, and  for  some  time  maintained  his  po- 
sition .by  the  assistance  of  the  judge  and 
Edith,  the  latter  of  whom  would  laugh  out 
when  she  was  amused  and  no  one  was 
offended  ;  would  sometimes  whisper  pret- 
ty loud; and  do  it  so  openly,  and  then  look 
so  pleasantly  and  archly  at  the  master, 
with  a  bright  sparkle  in  her  eyes,  that  he 
could  not  find  it  in  his  heart  to  chide  her.  x 
On  one  occasion,  however,  Ben  could  not 
hear  her  distinctly,  and  so  he  started  down- 
ward. His  progress  was  continuous;  and 
in  a  short  time,  and  to  the  amusement  of 
the  whole  school,  he  landed  at  the  foot, 
saying,  in  a  quiet  way, "  Now  I  feel  more 
nateral."  "Pneumatics!"  gave  out  the 
master  to  the  one  who  stood  next  to  War- 
den, who  had  purposely  missed  a  word, 
and  who  now  was  second,  while  Edith 
stood  head.  The  boy  could  not.  spell  it; 
the  next  blundered,  and  the  next  did  the 
same.  The  eyes  of  Rust  began  to  twin- 
kle;  and  as  the  word  still  kept  coming 
down,  his  lips  began  to  move,  his  hand 
was  on  his  head,  and  his  face  turned  up- 
ward with  an  expression  indicating  the 
profoundest  thought.  At  length  the  word 
readied  him  ;  and  Ben,  after  a  pause,  sud- 
denly started,  asking, 


ALAMANCE. 


19 


.  "What  did  you  say  the  word  was?" 

"  Pneumatics,''''  answered  the  teacher  : 
"come,  be  quick  ;  for  it  is  the  last  word, 
and  the  sun  is  nearly  down." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Ben  :  "  Peneumatics ! 
Now  let  me  see  ;  did  you  say  '•'pneumatics' 
was  the  word]" 

"  I  did,"  replied  the  master. 

"And  it  don't  begin  with  NV  asked 
Ben. 

"  I  did'nt  say  so  ;  but  such  is  the  fact." 

"  Pneu-ma<-ics !  was  it  all  spelled  right 
except,  the  first  syllable  V 

"  1  can*t  answer  any  more  questions," 
said  the  master. 

"  Well,"  answered  Ben,  "  I  know  m,  a,  t, 
spells  '■mat,''  and  i,c,k,s,  spells  'zcAs;'  so 
the  question  is  as  to  the  '  New.''  What 
can  it  be  ?     Oh,  G,  n,  oo,  Gnoo,  m,  a " 

"Wrong,  wrong!"  exclaimed  the  mas- 
ter; and  so  Edith  had  to  spell  the  word. 

The  school  was  now  dismissed  ;  and 
Henry  Warden,  who  was  a  general  fa- 
vourite, and  whose  sadness  had  been  ob- 
served, had  to  decline  many  pressing  invi- 
tations to  go  with  his  fellow-students. 

The  sun  was  far  down  among  the  trees 
as  the  torrent  of  youthful  life,  with  a  mer- 
ry din,  poured  out  ©f  the  school-house,  and 
streaming  off  by  different  roads,  waked 
with  song,  and  joke,  and  boisterous  laugh- 
ter, the  echoes  of  those  ancient  woods  for 
miles  around. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  TURNING  OUT  OP  THE  MASTER. 

The  events  related  in  the  last  chapter 
took  place  two  days  before  Christmas,  and 
after  Hector  M'Bride  had  been  teaching 
for  some  time  at  Alamance.  Before  the 
early  dawn  on  the  following  morning,  near- 
ly all  the  boys  and  many  of  the  girls  as- 
sembled at  the  school-house,  and  com- 
menced fortifying  it  to  bar  the  entrance  of 
the  master.  The  window  over  the  writ- 
ing-bench,, though  too  narrow  to  admit  the 
body  of  a  man,  was  closed  with  slabs,  and 
the  door  was  bolted  on  the  inside  with  a 
quantity  of  bars,  beams,  and  benches,  suffi- 
cient to  have  defied  the  efforts  of  a  battal- 
ion without  artillery.  Besides  the  chim- 
ney, the  little  window  above  the  master's 
desk  was  the  only  other  point  of  ingress, 
and  here,  all  the  larger  boys,  mounted  on 
tables  and  benches,  were  to  take  their 
stand.  Through  this  window,  Ben  Rust 
went  out  and  hung  on  a  pole  fastened  to 
the  roof  of  the  house  a  small  flag,  on  which 
were  blazoned  in  large  letters,  "School- 
boys' Rights."  and  then  tacked  on  the  door 
a  placard,  on  which  was  drawn  a  coil  of 
ropes,  with  the  sentence,  "  No  admission 
but  on  conditions,"  written  at  the  bottom. 
These  preparations  having  been  com- 
pleted, although  the  sun  was  not  yet  up, 


the  students  began  to  look  anxiously  for 
the  master.  Many  felt  a  strange  palpita- 
tion of  the  heart ;  some  wished  it  was  well 
over,  and  others  secretly  rued  having  em- 
barked in  the  business,  and  thought  they 
had  rather  study  a  week  than  undertake  to 
gain  a  holyday  by  such  a  hazardous  exper-, 
iment.  The  more  timid,  making  forlorn 
efforts  at  looking  unconcerned  and  telling 
jokes,  trembled  at  every  rustle  in  the 
leaves,  and  all  spoke  in  half-whispered, 
tremulous  tones.  Some,  with  great  ap- 
parent coolness,  amused  themselves  by 
trying  to  scribble  on  the  sheets  of  paper 
that  lay  scattered  about,  but  their  hands 
were  unsteady ;  some  made  lively  attempts 
to  entertain  the  girls,  but  their  teeth  chat- 
tered as  if  they  were  in  an  ague  ;  and  oth- 
ers clustered  about  Rust,  cracking  their 
wit  upon  him,  and  gathering  confidence 
from  his  quiet,  determined  manner.  Sud- 
denly the  sound  of  footsteps  behiud  the 
house  threw  all  within  into  a  fever  of  ex- 
citement, some  seizing  their  books,  some 
rushing  to  the  window  and  the  chinks  in 
the  wall,  and  some  walking  to  and  fro 
without  any  definite  purpose.  The  foot- 
steps still  approached,  and  Ben,  listening 
very  attentively,  exclaimed, 

"  There's  more  nor  one,  by  Jove  !" 

"  Do  you  think  he's  brought  assistance !" 
asked  an  ashy-coloured  lad,  trembling  all 
over. 

"  Surely,  no  one  would  take  part  with 
him,"  remarked  another. 

"  There's  no  tellin  what  may  happen," 
said  Ben  ;  "  and  it  may  be  the  old  folks  are 
goin  to  try  to  break  up  the  custom,  for 
I've  heern'sich  chat.'* 

"  If  that's  the  case,  we  can't  fight  against 
our  fathers,"  observed  one  who  desired  an 
excuse  to  surrender;  "and  suppose  they 
bring  pistols." 

"Suppose  the  devil  comes  himself,"  an- 
swered Rust,  "  we'll  give  him  a  chunkin  ; 
for  there's  plenty  of  fire  here.  Let  all  Al- 
amance come ;  the  more  the  merrier,  I 
say." 

"  And  so  dol,"  said  the  judge  ;  "  and  if 
they  choose  to  fight  us,  they  must  take 
what  they  get^ 

By  this  time  the  footsteps  were  heard 
advancing  round  to  the  front  of  the  house, 
and  suddenly,  an  old  black  horse  with  a 
most  woful  countenance,  came  in  view. 
He  paused  when  he  saw  the  heads  at  the 
window,  and  gazing  at  them  very  solemn- 
ly for  several  minutes,  he  gave  a  feeble 
neigh,  and  then  gravely  walked  off  in  pur- 
suit of  his  pleasure.  The  occupants  of  the 
castle  were  prodigiously  relieved  at  what 
they  saw  ;  and  becoming  by  this  time  used 
to  their  situation,  they  felt  ready  for  a  trial 
of  their  courage.  Ben,  now  seating  him- 
self in  the  master's  chair,  requested  all  to 
be  silent  while  he  made  a  few  remarks. 

"  You  see,  my  Christin  friends,"  said  he. 


20 


ALAMANCE. 


"  how  a  man's  fears  can  make  a  fool  of 
him.  That  old  crittur  which  you  all  took 
for  a  legion  of  armed  men,  was  so  tickled 
at  your  fright,  that  though  he  seems  to  be 
a  decent  and  gentlemanly  old  hoss,  he 
could'nt  hold  in,  and  laughed  right  in  our 
faces.  He  was  so  mightily  amused,  I 
could  see  it  in  his  eyes ;  and  did'nt  you 
see  how  contemptiously  he  switched  his 
tail,  as  much  as  to  say,  'good-bye,  boys, 
you're  green.'  I  tell  you,  the  way  to  get 
out  of  danger  is  to  face  it. :  even  a  painter 
or  a  wild  cat  will  walk  off  if  we  look  him 
straight  in  the  eyes.     You  must " 

"  Yonder  he  comes !  yonder  he  comes !" 
exclaimed  several  who  were  at  the  win- 
dow ;  and  sure  enough,  the  master,  with 
his  eyes  bent  on  the  ground,  a  staff  in  his 
hand,  and  a  book  under  his  left  arm,  came 
in  view.  All  heads  were  withdrawn  from 
the  window,  and  perfect  silence  reigned 
within."  Walking  leisurely  to  the  door,  the 
master  looked  for  the  string  of  the  latch, 
and  finding  it  was  gone,  began  to  rap  with 
his  stick. 

"  I  surely  saw  some  one  at  the  window," 
said  he  ;  and  again  he  rapped  more  loudly, 
calling  out  "  Robert  Smith  !" 

"  Sir,"  answered  the  boy,  running  across 
the  room,  and  forgetting  himself  till  he  was 
seized  and  admonished. to  be  silent. 

"  Robert,"  continued  the  master,  "  open 
this  door,  my  son.  Will  no  one  let  me 
into  this  house  1  ho,  you  within,  what 
fool's  play  is  this  !" 

.As  no  one  answered,  he  continued  to 
rattle  at  the  door,  working  himself  inio  a 
towering  passion,  and  uttering  the  fiercest 
exclamations.  The  excitement  within 
was  now  intense,  and  many,  doubtful  of 
the  issue  of  the  attempt  to  bar  out,  stood 
with  their  books  in  hand,  ready  to  act  ac- 
cording to  emergency.  The  master,  after 
repeated  efforts,  finding  the  door  firml)r 
barred,  walked  off  and  began  to  cut  and 
trim  a  supply  of  rods,  occasionally  look- 
ing back  to  observe  the  effect  of  this 
manoeuvre.  Returning  again,  "with  his 
switches  in  one  hand  and  a  beam  of  wood 
in  the  other,  he  said,  solemnly, 

"  Boys,  open  this  door.  If  you  do  not, 
I  shall  batter  it  down,  and  the  blame  will 
lie  on  yourselves." 

"  Read  the  nouce,"  said  one  within. 

"The  notice,  hah!"  replied  the  master, 
putting  on  his  spectacles  ;  "  its  a  bungling 
fist.  Treason,  as  1  live — foul  treason  and 
rebellion;  and -it  shall  be  duly  punished. 
Young  rebels !  admit  me  instantly  into 
my  house,  or  I'll  whip  every  mother's  son 
of  you  till  the  blood  trickles  down  your 
backs!" 

"Kctchin's  before  hangin,"  answered 
Rust,  displaying  his  face  at  the  window. 
"Praps,  my  Christin  friend,  if  you'll  flog 
the  house  you  might  save  yourself  a  deal 
of  trouble  and  whip  us  all  in  a  lump." 


"Benjamin!  Benjamin!  are  you  mad  1" 
asked  M'Bride. 

"Not  purticularly  so,"  said  Ben;  "how 
is  it  with  yourself?  I  hope  your  exercise 
keeps  you  warm,  for  its  an  ontolerable 
cold  mornin." 

"  Mr.  Rust,"  retorted" the  master,  "it  ill 
becomes  you  to  be  jesting  thus  with  your 
teacher,  and  I  can  hardly  believe  the  evi- 
dence of  my  own  senses.  Let  me  in,  and 
I'll  forgive  the  past;  but  wo  be  to  you  and 
your  deluded  followers  if  you  do  not !" 

Ben,  not  in  the  least  moved  by  this  ap- 
peal, very  quietly  informed  the  master  that, 
"accordin  to  the  laws  of  the  Medes  and 
Persians,  every  dog  must  have  its  day,"  and 
that,  therefore,  the  day  of  old  Proximus  was 
over  for  the  present.  "All  of  which, "he  con- 
tinued, "we'll  maintain  viva  voce'''' — apiece 
of  gratifying  intelligence  which  was  follow- 
ed by  a  rap  of  the  master's  switch  rather 
uncomfortably  close  to  the  speaker's  face. 
The  teacher's  blows  now  followed  in  quick 
succession,  and  he  and  Rust  were  begin- 
ning to  pant  with  their  exertions,  the  one  to 
enter  and  the  other  to  defend  the  window, 
when  the  latter  exclaimed, 

"Let's  parley."  4 

"  J  have  nothing  more  to  say,  young 
rebel,"  M'Bride  answered,  preparing  more 
rods. 

"  But  I  have  a  deal  to  say  to  you,"  said 
Rust,  "  and  it  consarns  you  to  listen.  We 
don't  want  to  harm  a  hair  on  your  head, 
and  are  only  defendin  our  nateral  rights ; 
but  our  blood  may  git  hot,  and  then  there's 
no  tellin  what  may  happen.  I  spose  you 
only  wanted  to  show  pluck  and  then. give 
up  ;  and  as  we  are  satisfied  with  your  cour- 
age, you  had  better  now  surrender." 

"  I'll  show  you  whether  I  am  in  fun  or 
not,  yo.u  saucy  whelp,"  exclaimed  the 
master,  whose  blows  soon  cleared  the 
window,  one  of  them  welting  several  fa- 
ces. Seizing  the  favorable  moment,  he 
sprung  to  the  window,  and  was  half  way 
in  when  he  was  grappled  by  Rust,  whom 
he  dragged  out  after  him,  and  one  of  the 
skirts  of  whose  coat  was  left  behind  on  a 
nail.  The  judge  and  several  others  tum- 
bled out  to  sustain  their  leader:  but  the 
foe,  breaking  loose  from  the  crowd,  put 
his  legs  into  a  rapid  motion,  ill  sorting 
with  his  usual  gravity.  The  boys,  with  a 
loud  shout,  gave  chase,  Ben,  with  his  sin- 
gle-skirted coat,  leading  the  pack,  and 
yelping  like  a  beagle-hound.  The  game, 
doubling  and  wheeling  round  trees  with 
admirable  dexterity,  soon  tired  down  his 
pursuers,  and  coursed  off  in  gallailt  style. 
The  oV)or  was  flung  open,  and  the  woods 
swarmed  with  a  merry  crowd,  shouting, 
laughing,  and  betting  on  the  race.  The 
tumult  made  by  those  in  pursuit  became 
fainter  and  fainter,  and  finally  died  away. 
Suddenly,  and  in  an  opposite  direction,  it 
was  heard  again,  and  soon  the  master,  far 


ALAMANCE. 


31 


in  advance  of  his  followers,  dashed  through 
the  crowd  at.  the  house,  darted  in  at  the 
door,  and,  slapping  his  rod  on  the  floor, 
called  sternly,  "  to  books  !"  The  peda- 
gogue in  his  chair  of  authority  is  a  more 
awful  personage  than  the  master  out  of 
doors;  and,  accordingly,  M'Bride  was  now 
obeyed,  and  the  usual  din  of  study  began 
to  be  heard  when  the  larger  boys  entered. 
They  had  held  a  short  consultation  out  of 
doors,  and  it  was  easy  to  see  that  their 
blood  was  up,  and  that  they  contemplated 
rough  measures  as  they  took  their  stand 
round  the  teacher^ 

"Young  men,"  said  the  latter,  "take 
your  seats.  I  am  loath  to  whip  you,  but 
vou  will  force  me  to  do  it  if  you  do  not 
instantly  resume  your  studies." 

"  Whipping  is  a  game  two  can  play  at," 
answered  the  judge,  "  and  we're  as  loath 
to  do  it  as  you  are.  I"  must,  however,  in- 
form you,  that  if  you  do  not  grant  our 
demands  we  can  and  we  will  use  rough 
measures." 

M'Bride  made  no  reply,  but  rbse  to  his. 
feet  and  raised  his  chair,  when  the  judge 
exclaimed, 

"  Rust,  prepare  your  ropes ;  and  now, 
boys,  on." 

As  he  darted  towards  the  master,  the 
chair  of  the  latter  fell  harmless,  and  with 
a  laugh  he  said, 

"  I  surrender ;  what's  your  will  ?" 

"  Here  are  our  demands,"  answered 
Henry  Warden,  and  he  read  the  following 
carefully-written  letter : 

"  To  Mr.  Hector  M'Bride. 

"Sir, — You  are  hereby  informed  that, 
in  accordance  with  an  ancient  and  well- 
established  usage,  you  are  to  be  this  day 
excluded  from  your  school-house  and  pro- 
ceeded against  as  an  enemy  until  you 
agree  to  the  following  terms,  to  wit :  You 
are  to  let  us  have  this  for  a  holyday  extra, 
and  not  count  it  in  the  calendar,  as  it  is 
won  by  our  valour.  You  are  also  to  spend 
one  pound  sterling  in  the  purchase  of  such 
refreshments  and  confections  as  you  may 
deem  proper  for  us,  and  on  your  refusal 
to  comply  with  these  conditions  we,  will 
Jeel  authorized  to  compel  submission  by 
Kuxe  :  For  all  of  which  there  are  abun- 
dant precedents. 

"We  remain  your  affectionate  pupils, 

"  Henry  Warden,  ^ 

"Will.   Glutson,  >Com'tte." 

"  Ben.  Rust,  y 

"  You  have  shown  your  pluck,"  said  the 
master,  "and  I  trust  I  have  also  displayed 
some  courage  ;  and  now  we'll  laugh"  ov-er 
the  little  accidents  of  the  day." 

So  saying,  he  sat  down  and  wrote  an 
order  for  the  apples,  cakes,  candies,  and 


cider,  which  he  had  before  purchased  for 
the  occasion  and  left  with  his  nearest  pat- 
ron. The  parents  now  began  to  drop  in, 
and  were  surprised  and  elated  to  find  their 
sons  had  conquered  the  master  so  soon. 
The  "  barring  out"  was  a  high  festival  at 
old  field  schools,  and  the  prescriptive 
rights  of  students  in  regard  to  it,  were  re- 
spected by  all.  On  such  occasions  the 
situation  of  the  teacher  was  a  trying  one. 
It  was  considered  as  his  duty  to  resist  to 
the  last,  and  yet  those  who  so  considered 
desired  to  see  him  conquered.  The  turn- 
ing out  was  considered  as  a  sort  of  minia- 
ture war,  in  Which  it  was  incumbent  on 
the  master  to  teach  his  pupils  coolness, 
fortitude,  and  perseverance. 

At  the  time  referred  to,  the  old  people 
congratulated  master  and  scholar,  and 
were  highly  pleased  with  the  conduct  of 
both. 

Among  the  visitors  was  Mr.  Cornelius 
Demijohn,  commonly  called  Corny  Demi- 
john, a  sedate  bachelor  of  a  grave'presence, 
and  weighing  some  twenty  odd  stone.  Al- 
though he  had  no  children,  he  took  a  great 
interest  in  the  school;  and  having  been 
consulted  by  the  students  in  regard  to  the 
proper  method  of  proceeding  in  turning 
out  the  master,  he  had  arrived  early,  and, 
from  a  concealed  position,  watched,  with 
lively  interest,  the  fortunes  of  the  day. 
He  was  supposed  to  be  skilled  in  military 
science,  and  his  heart  was  as  kind  as  char- 
ity, and  his  hand  ever  ready  to  strike  for 
his  friend.  He  was  by  blood  related  to  no 
one  but  his  mother  at  Alamance,  yet  all 
seemed  to  be  his  nephews  and  nieces,  for 
he  was  universally  known  as  "  Uncle  Cor- 
ny." As  usual,  his  advent  created  a  sen- 
sation among  the  young  folk,  and  especi- 
ally among  the  girls,  who  immediately  be- 
gan to  cluster  about  him,  and  chatter  away 
like  a  flock  of  magpies  round  a  grave  Mus- 
covy duck.  The  old  men  told  long  stories 
of  their  own  exploits  on  such  occasions; 
the  little  boys  listened,  and  the  young  men 
romped  with  the  females,  and  assisted 
them  in  putting  Uncle  Corny  into  trouble. 
As  the  day  wore  towards  its  noon,  the 
young  people  became  desirous  that  their 
parents  and  teacher  should  join  them  in  a 
grand  game  of  town-ball ;  and,  the  Rev. 
Dr.  Caldwell  arriving  about  this  time,tho 
same  request  was  made  of  him.  The  so- 
licitation showed  on  what  terms  the  par- 
son lived  with  his  people,  respect  for  the 
minister  being  tempered  by  affection  for 
the  man  ;  while  his  ready  assent  displayed 
the  cheerfulness  of  a  disposition  which  the 
studies  of  his  calling  had  failed  to  tinge 
with  an  austere  or  fanatic  feeling. 

All,  accordingly,  adjourned  to  the  old 
field,  and  the  sport  commenced  in  earnest. 
Conscious  of  innocence,  and  therefore 
fearless  of  the  censure  of  the  world,  or  of 
Heaven,  the  sun  in  his  course  never  looked 


22 


ALAMANCE. 


down  On  a  happier  crowd  than  was  that 
day  assembled  on  the  play-ground  at  the 
Old  field  school  of  Alamance.  The  editor 
of  these  memoirs,  hurried  on  by  more 
stirring-  incidents,  regrets  that  he  cannot 
stop  to  describe  the  play,  once  so  interest- 
ing to  him,  and  to  make  a  good  performer 
in  which  required  a  true  eye,  a  quick  hand, 
and  great  activity  of  body.  He  regrets 
his  inability  to  chronicle  the  mishaps  of 
Uncle  Corny,* and  the  sprightliness  of  the 
master,  both  of  which  created  no  little 
merriment ;  and  he 'regrets  still  more  that 
he  cannot  hand  down  to  fame  the  exploits 
of  the  parson,  the  simplicity  of  whose  heart 
and  the  energies  of  whose  body,  were  alike 
untouched  by  the  blight  of  advancing  years. 
The  master,  whose  notes  we  follow,  when 
he  comes  to  the  sports  of  this  day,  in  the 
very  beginning  of  his  account  breaks  off 
with  the  exclamation,  "Eheu,  priscos  f di- 
ces lusus !  Eheu,  tempora  mulata .'"  He 
then  continues  his  remarks  with  equal 
beauty  and  pathos.. 

"  We  shall  not  attempt,"  says  he,  "  to 
draw  a  picture  of  what  no  pen  can  de- 
scribe. If  there  be  any  yet  living  who 
witnessed  that,  or  similar  scenes,  where 
age  and  learning,  wisdom  and  piety,  beauty 
and  innocence,  forgetting  the  world,  its 
vices,  and  its  sorrows,  wore  away  the 
winged  hours  in  harmless  sport  and  frolic, 
they  will  know  that  his  would  be  a  dar- 
ing pen  who  should  attempt  a  description; 
and  if  all  the  actors  in  those  merry  scenes 
are  gathered  to  the  last  mansions  of  mor- 
tality, it  would  be  a  bootless  task  to  dwell 
on  recollections  which  none  can  appre- 
ciate." 

The  editor  has  witnessed  similar  scenes, 
and  deep  in  his  memory  are  those  scenes 
engraven,  and  there  shall  they  remain,  the 
sweetest  picture  in  the  recollections  of  the 
past,  till  that  memory  is  darkened  by  the 
shadows  of  death  !  Pray,  then,  good  read- 
er, excuse  the  writer  if  he  is  tedious  and 
garrulous  on  trivial  matters  that  interest 
you  but  little.  Remember  that,  after  the 
vicissitudes  of  a  long  and  chequered  life, 
the  dear  scenes  of  his  early,  and  happy 
youth  are  now  before  him,  softened,  chast- 
ened, and  beautified  by  the  moonlight  of 
memory;  and  surely  you  will  excuse  him 
for  taking  "one  longing,  lingering  look," 
before  he  shuts  his  eyes  upon  them  and 
dashes  into  the  more  memorable  but  sad- 
der scenes  which  follow.  He  is  only  a 
half-enchanter;  he  has  conjured  up  from 
its  mossy  grave  the  fair,  pale  spirit  of  the 
past ;  but  it  will  not  down  at  his  bidding. 
Bear  with  him,  then,  for  a  little  while,  and 
you  soon  shall  be  ushered  into  the  midst 
of  stirring  times,  and  of  great  events,  and 
see  enough  of 

"  Battles,  sieges,  fortunes ; 

Of  most,  disastrous  chances —       •  / 

Of  moving 'accidents  by  Hood  and  field."   / 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A    GREAT    MAN    AT    ALAMANCE. 

How  Nathan  Glutson  "came  into  the 
world,  and  where  he  first  saw  the  light, 
was  matter  of  speculation  more  perplex- 
ing than  profitable  to  his  neighbours.  It 
is  certain  that  he  was  the  son  of  his  moth- 
er ;  but  if  he  ever  had  a  father,  that  for- 
tunate personage  must  have  been  fond  of 
obscurity,  for,  according  to  the  gossips, 
neither  wife  nor  offspring  ever  knew  him 
as  husband  or  parent.  Nathan,  however, 
as  we  will  see,  was  not  one  of  those  who 
need  the  influence  of  illustrious  paternity 
to  push  them  forward  in  the  world.  Like 
other  renowned  men,  he  was  born  with  ay. 
the  elements  of  greatness  in  himself,  and 
was  destined  to  reflect  from  the  meridian 
sun  of  his  own  glory  an  unfading  lustre  on 
all  his  race  ;  as  well  on  thqse  who  pre- 
ceded as  on  those  who  came  after  him  on 
the  stage  of  being.  The  mystery  which 
envelopes  his  origin  shrouds  also  his  early 
youth  ;  and  for  the  interesting  bistory  of 
this  portion  of  his  eventful  life,  the  world 
must  be  indebted  to  the  pen  of  Nathan 
himself;  Until  the  publication  of  his  auto- 
biography, we  must  restrain  our  impatient 
curiosity,  and  take  him  where  the  Ala- 
mancers  found  him,  at  the  age  of  two  and 
twenty.  Having  attained  his  majority,  and 
being  aware  that  a  prophet  is  not  without 
honour  except  in  his  own  country,  Nathan 
left  the  country  of  his  ancestors  and  set- 
tled at  Alamance.  A  disciple  of  Saint 
Crispin,  he  came  with  hammer  and  awl  to 
shoe  the  Alamancers,  thus  typifying  his 
more  important  mission,  which  was  to 
harness  with  sound  doctrine  the  souls  of 
his  new  and  simple  neighbours,  and  new- 
vamp  their  minds,  so  as  to  enable  them 
to  walk  unhurt  over  the  briers  and  sharp 
stones  of  this  thorny  wilderness.  He 
pitched  his  tent,  or,  to  speak  more  cor- 
rectly, he  built  his  shop  at  the  crossing  of 
two  public  roads.  A  painted  sign  was  hung 
out,  to  be  gazed  at  with  admiring  wonder 
by  every  mill-boy  that  passed  along,  and 
printed  cards  were  circulated  for  the  be- 
wilderment of  the  public  generally..  Sign- 
boards such  as  his,  and  cards,  ^were  new 
things  at  ^.lamance ;  and,  while  they  con- 
stituted a  novelty  interesting  to  the  young, 
they  were  regarded  by  some  very  shrewd 
old  people  as  unerring  indications  of  the 
fast-approaching  end  of  the  world.  The 
earth,  however,  despite  their  opinions, 
kept  on  its  usual  courses,  and  the  Ala- 
mancers, satisfied  by  degrees  of  Nathan's 
superior  artistical  skill,  gave  him  a  liberal 
patronage.  Glutson,  increasing  in  world- 
ly substance,  took  to  himself  for  wife'an 
old  spinster  with  a  hundred  acres  of  land, 
one  hundred  wrinkles  in  her  face,  and  five 
hundred  crotchets  in  her  temper.  Such 
were  the  lands,  goods,  and  chattels,  which 


ALAMANCE. 


23 


Nathan  got  by  marriage ;  and  turning  all 
but  the  crotchets  and  the  wrinkles  into 
money,  he  took  an  apprentice  to  his  trade, 
opened  a  house  of  entertainment,  and  a 
blacksmith-shop  in  which  he  hired  some 
strolling  workmen  to  labour.  These  shops 
became  the  lesort  of  all  the  idlers  in  the 
community,  and  Nathan  held  forth  to 
them  daily  on  law,  ethics,  and  politics. 
Among  other  things,  he  became  a  bailiff, 
and  by  his  frequent  visits  to  the  distant 
court-house,  augmented  his  influence  and 
importance.  He  soon  added  another  to 
his  multifarious  occupations,  in  the  prose- 
cution of  which  he  still  kept  in  view  the 
public  good.  He  became  a  money-lender 
and  a  shaver  of  paper,  in  the  discharge  of 
'which  business,  he  regulated  himself  by 
the  wants  of  the  borrower,  endeavouring, 
as  far  as  practicable,  to  carry  out  literally 
the  language  of  Scripture,  "  from  him  that 
hath  not  shall  be  taken  even  that  he  hath." 
Thus  did  Nathan  manufacture  shoes,  point 
coulters,  and  entertain  strangers,  charging 
only  three  prices  for  the  same;  thus  did 
he  serve  process  and  shave  bonds  at  fif- 
ty per  centum  discount,  until  he  became 
a  man  of  such  vast  consequence  as  to  be 
appointed  a  justice  of  the  peace.  Then 
it  was  that  he  enlarged  his  garments  and 
his  house,  put  on  a  grave  and  sober  face, 
became  a  severe  and  rigid  moralist,  and 
spoke  as  one  having  authority.  Sons  and 
daughters  were  born  unto  him,  and  in  their 
early  promise  he  to.ok  a  becoming  pride. 
He  joined  the  church,  in  which  he  was  ap- 
pointed a  ruling  elder;  took  an  active  part 
in  all  public  matters,  and  was  the  terror 
of  all  poor  vagabonds  far  and  near.  The 
advice  and  conversation  of  such  a  man 
could  not  but  be  profitable  and  instruct- 
ive to  old  and  young ;  and  as  Nathan  was 
aware  of  this,  and  deemed  it  a  sin  to  hide 
his  light  under  a  bushel,  his  loud  and  com- 
manding voice  was  heard  at  every  public 
gathering.  At  such  places  he  was  gener- 
ally the  last  comer;  a  proper  regard  for 
his  own  dignity  requiring  that  he  should 
cause  himself  to  be  waited  for  and  observ- 
ed by  all  eyes  when  he  came.  It  was 
therefore  late  on  the  day  of '-the  barring 
/but"  mentioned  in  the  last  chapter  when 
[Nathan  arrived , at  the  Old-Field  School. 
He  heard  a  great  shout  just  as  he  touched 
the  verge  of  the  field,  and  to  his  inexpress- 
ible mortification  saw  the  Rev.  Dr.  Cald- 
1  well  with  the  fieetness  of  a  deer  coursing 
'round  the  circuit  of  the  "  town." 

Beyond  measure  scandalized  at  what  he 
saw  he  stood,  himself  unnoticed,  gazing 
on  the  merry  scene  with  feelings  akin  to 
those  of  Satan,  when,  from  a  lofty  hill,  he 
beheld  with  baneful  eye  the  innocent  de- 
lights of  that  glorious  Eden  which  his 
hateful  presence  was  to  mar  forever.  He 
observed  with  pride  that  his  own  hopeful 
children,  apparently  disgusted  with  what 


was  going  on,  had  retired  from  the  playt 
and  seemed  engaged  in  the  amiable  occu- 
pation of  criticising  the  conduct  of  their 
friends.  They  were  so  engaged  ;  and  just 
at  this  time,  Edith  Mayfield,  running  to 
catch  a  ball  on  which  her  upturned  eyes 
were  fixed,  stumbled  against  and  fell  over 
Emily  Glutson,  and  damaged  the  hitter's 
bonnet,  the  finest  in  the  school.  Edith, 
who  was  the  worse  hurt  of  the  two,  was 
soon  on  her  feet,  laughing  at  the  accident, 
when  a  slap  in  the  face  by  Emily's  broth- 
er, accompanied  by  a  harsh  exclamation, 
changed  her  merriment  to  tears,  and  sent 
her  off  bitterly  weeping. 

Henry  Warden,  observing  her  distress, 
and  hearing  in  the  crowd  some  remark 
about  William  Glutson,  hastily  enquired  of 
every  one  around  him  what  had  happened. 
Dreading  the  consequences,  his  fellow- 
students  endeavoured  to  disguise  and  pal- 
liate the  matter  to  the'judge,  whose  sus- 
picions were  still  strengthened  by  the 
vague  answers  he  received.  He  was  in- 
stantly by  the  side  of  William  Glutson,  de- 
manding, in  no  gentle  tones,  an  account  of 
his  conduct  to  Edith  Mayfield. 

"  Are  you  her  protector  V  asked  Glut- 
son,  with  a  sneer,  at  the  same  time  rising 
to  his  feet. 

"I  am,"  was  the  emphatic  response; 
"and  you  shall  apologize  this  instant." 

"  Not  this  week,  nor  ever,  to  such  a  milk- 
faced  hero  as  you,"  replied  the  other. 

"  Then,  take  that,  and  that !"  said  the 
judge,  striking  him  several  times  in  the 
face. 

Before  Glutson  had  recovered  himself 
sufficiently  to  return  the  blows,  Warden, 
grappled  by  powerful  arms,  was  thrown 
some  distance  on  his  back,  and  Ben  Rust 
stood  confronting  his  now  furious  antag- 
onist. The  courage  of  the  latter  growing 
rapidly-at  the  prospect  of  an  interference, 
he  began  to  let  loose  a  torrent  of  abuse, 
and,  making  an  effort  to  get  at  his  fallen 
enemy,  his  nose  came  into  such  violent 
contact  with  Ben's  fist  that  the  blood 
spurted  out,  and  he  yelled  with  pain  and 
rage. 

"  Very  well !"  coolly  observed  the  keeper 
of  the  peace  ;  "  when  this  you  see,  remem- 
ber me,"  and  the  ponderous  weapon  again 
brushed  through  Glut-son's  face — Ben,  with 
his  right  leg  stuck  out,  gyrating  several 
times  on  his  left  foot,  and  sweeping  his  arm 
through  the  air  as  if  he  were  knocking 
down  a  circle  of  adversaries. 

These  things  all  happened  in  a  minute, 
and  all  the  company,  with  Squire  Glutsonl 
himself,  were  soon  on  the  scene  of  battle. 
The  old  field  being  no  place  for  the  inves-  ■ 
tigation  of  the  affair,  they  adjourned  to  the 
house,  and  Warden  and  Glutson  were  prop- 
erly arraigned  and  put  upon  their  trial. 

"  My  practice,"  said  M'Bride,  "  is  first  to 
hear  the  parties  themselves.     I  desire  al- 


24 


ALAMANCE. 


ways  to  put  the  scholar  on  his  or  her  hon- 
our, and  to  inculcate  thus  the  habit  of  tell- 
ing the  truth'  even  against  themselves. 
William  Glutson,  stand  up  here  and  relate 
the  facts  connected  with  the  fight  between 
you  and  Henry  Warden."         ♦ 

His  father,  fumbling  his  watch-seals  with 
his  right  hand,  looked  round  with  magiste- 
rial gravity  and  dignity  as  his  son  roundly 
told  his  story. 

"Because,"'  said  the  latter,  "because  I 
would  not  take  his  insolence,  Henry  War- 
den struck  me  in  the  face,  and  but  for 
your  presence  and  that  of  my  father  I 
would  have  thrashed  him  like  "a  sack." 

"What  insolence?"  asked  the  master; 
"tell  all  that  occurred." 

"Edith  Mayfield  ran  over  my  sister, 
hurting  her  very  much,  and  then  making 
fun  of  her ;  and,  because  I  gave  her  a  little 
lecture  for'it,  Henry  Warden  came  to  me 
in  a  very  insulting  manner,  and  demanded 
an#  apology.  I  refused  to  give  it,  and  he 
struck  me." 

"  Henry  Warden,  what  have  you  to  say !'' 
asked  M'Bride. 

"  Nothing,  sir,"  answered  the  judge. 

"  Come,  sir,  I  want  no  insolence,"  said 
the  master;  "answer  at  once,  what  took 
place  between  you  and  William  Glutson  ?" 

"  I  do  not  mean  to  be  insolent,"  replied 
Henry,  "  but  I  have  no  statement  to  make. 
I  might  contradict  what  has  beCn  said,  and 
I  had  rather  be  punished  for  fighting  than 
to  be  suspected  of  falsehood." 

The  master,  thinking  that  the  judge  was 
in  a  temporary  pet,  dismissed  him  for  the 
present,  and  called  Rust  to  the  witness's 
stand.  Ben  told  his  story  roundly,  impli- 
cating no  one,  and  leaving  it  extremely 
doubtful  whether  there  had  been  a  fight  at 
all.  His  testimony  not  being  entirely  sat- 
isfactory to  the  master,  the  latter  put  va- 
rious questions  to  him  for  the  purpose  of 
eliciting  the  whole  truth. 

"Did  you,"  asked  he,  "see  the  com- 
mencement of  the  fight?" 

Rust. — "I  can't  say  adzactly  that  I  did." 

M'Bride. — "  What  was  the  first  thing  that 
you  saw?    Were  the  parties  together]" 

Rust. — "When  1  first  seed  them,  they 
were  standin  side-and-side,  lookin  sorter 
mad,  though  I  could'nt  possibly  be  pertic- 
ler  as  to  that.  Folks  sometimes  look  grum, 
you  know,  when  they  are  in  a  good  hu- 
mour; and,  as  to. the  matter  of  that,  I 
never  saw  old  Father  Gruel  look  pleasin  in 
my  life.  He  eats  his  dinner  as  if  it  was 
epicac  and  salts,  and " 

M'Bride.— "Never  mind  about  Father 
Gruel.     Did  you  hear  any  words  pass?" 

Rust. — "  Somthin  ivas  said  after  I  got  to 
them,  but  I  didn't  pay  perticler  attention 
to  the  compliments  passed." 

M'Bride. — "  Mr.  Rust,  remember  what 
you  say  now  you  are  bound  in  honour  to  say. 
You  are  not  acting  the  part  of  an  odious 


tell-tale,  but  of  a  witness  whose  evidence 
affects  the  welfare  of  your  fellow- students. 
1  ask  you  now,  for  your  own  sake,  and  for 
the  sake  of  these  two  boys,  to  tell  all  you 
know  of  the  fight,  its  cause,  its  beginning, 
and  its  ending." 

Rust. — "  Well,  as  I  said  -before,  I  heerd 
a  sort  of  fuss  or  rumpus,  and,  lookin  round, 
1  seed  Henry  Warden  and  Bill  Glutson 
standin  close  together,  and  Henry's  fis 
circulatin  tolerably  freely  about  Bill's  face. 
They  mout  have  been  playin,but  I  thought 
I'd  see  the  fun.  When  I  got  there,  I  put 
an  end  to  it ;  and  so  the  game's  oyer,  and 
I  don't  know  who  won." 

M'Bride. — "  Do  you  pretend  to  say  there 
was  no  fight !" 

Rust  (after  musing  a  while). — "  There 
was  a  little  skrimmage,  sir." 

M'Bride. — "  How  often  did  Henry  War- 
den strike  the  other  ?" 

Rust. — "Now,  I  don't  know  that  he  hit 
him  ary  time.  1  saw  his  fist  travellin  two 
or  three  times  towards  Bill's  fate,  but 
whether  it  called  or  passed  by  I  can't  say. 
lt"s  not  onlikely  it  knocked  fur  admission, 
as  they  say.  at  his  mouth.  He  seemed  to 
poke  it  into  him  faster  than  Bill  could  pack 
it  away." 

M'Bride. — "  Do  you  know  of  any  cause 
of  quarrel  between  the  two?  Had  anyt 
thing  happened  just  before  the  fight  to  ir- 
ritate Henry  Warden?" 

Rust. — "  They  say  Bill  Glutson  struck 
Eddie  Mayfield :  butjthe  others  know  more 
about  that  "than  I  do." 

Ben  now  had  permission  to  resume  his 
seat,- which  he  did  with  great  gravity,  hav- 
ing first  made  a  profound  bow  to  the  mas- 
ter. Warden  was  again  called  on,  and 
again  refused  to  tell  what  he  knew.  Hav- 
ing never  been  chided  by  parent  or  teacher, 
his  sensibility  wounded  to  the  quick  by  hi; 
present  position,  mortified  that  he  was 
even  suspected  of  wrong,  and  desirous  of 
not  calling  on  Edith  Mayfield,  no  persua- 
sion could  induce  him  to  make  a  defence. 

"Henry,"  said  M'Bride,  at  length,  "I 
have  a  painful  duty  to  perform.  You  have 
been  my.  best  student,  the  pride  of  the 
school,  and  the  boast  of  the  neighbour- 
hood. No  one  has  ever  before  raised  an 
accusing  voice  against  you,  but  discipline 
must  be  enforced.  By  the  testimony  of 
others,  and  by  your  own  mute  confession, 
you  are  guilty  of  a  heinous  misdemeanour, 
and  until  you  sincerely  repent,  you  must 
be  excluded,  as  unworthy,  from  my  peace- 
ful fold.    With  tears  I  blot  your  name " 

"Hold!"  exclaimed  Nathan  Glutson;. 
"  you  are  too  severe,  my  worthy  friend. 
If  I  might  be  allowed,"  continued  he,  ris- 
ing with  dignity,  "  if  I  might  be  allowed  to 
give  my  humble  opinion,  I  would  advise 
that  the  culprit  be  soundly  whipped  and 
forgiven  for  his  recent  offence,  i  am  sure 
my  son  would  be  satisfied  with  this.     The 


ALAMANCE. 


25 


in 


boy  is  giddy,  and  may  have  a  touch  of  his 
father's  infirmity;"  and  Nathan  paused 
and  looked  round  for  approbation.  His 
good  counsel  was,  however,  thrown  away; 
for  something  very  much  Jike  disgust  was 
visible  in  every  face.  As  for  the  judge — 
his  burning  soul  flashing  through  his  eyes 
with  a  dignity,  it  may  even  be  said,  with 
a  grandeur  of  manner  that  impressed  the 
whole  assembly — he  declared  that  he  never 
•would  survive  such  a  chastisement  as  that 
recommended,  at  the  hands  of  any  but  a 
parent. 

"  The  whip,"  he  cried,  "  is  for  the  back 
of  the  sluggard  and  the  mean-spirited.  As 
for  that  man,"  he  continued,  gazing  on 
Nathan  Glutson  with  a  sternness  that  dis- 
composed his  nerves,  "  he  is  a  hypocrite 
and  a  slanderer;  the  tyrant  of  the  weak, 
and  the  slave  of  the  strong!  And  now," 
said  he,  his  great  heart  swelling  within 
him,  "  my  teacher,  the  Glutsons,  and  the 
world  may  do  its  worst,  for  I  shall  ask 
pardon  and  m^rcy  of  none  but  God  !" 

Thus  spoke  the  descendant  of  a  puritan, 
and  the  protege  of  the  famous  Dr.  Cald- 

ell.  He  Was  mistaken,  though,  in  think- 
ing the  world  his  enemy.  That  little  part 
of  it  in  which  he  was  then  acting  the  early 
hero  loved  and  respected  him,  and  boys 
and  girls  clustered  around  him,  endeav- 
ouring to  soothe  his  chafed  and  wounded 
spirit.  Even  the  parson  and  master  ex- 
changed secret  glances  of  admiration;  and 
the  sympathies  of  Uncle  Corny  became  so 
much  excited  that  it  would  have  been  dan- 
gerous for  any  one  to  have  attempted  to 
lay  rough  hands  on  the  judge.  As  for  Na- 
than, he  was,  in  vulgar  phrase,  greatly 
flurried  and  hurt  in  feeling,  and  was  about 
to  begin  a  speech,  when  he  was  stopped 
by  the  silver  voice  Qf  Edith  Mayfield.  The 
girl,  catching  the  feeling  that  animated 
Henry  Warden,  came  forward,  covered 
with  blushes,  and  told  her  simple  story. 
She  was  listened  to  in  breathless  silence, 
and  her  tale  acquitted  the  judge  in  the 
hearts  of  all  but  the  Glutsons.  The  repre- 
sentative and  pater -familias  of  that  ilk 
could  now  no  longer  nestrain  his  indigna- 
tion, which  blazed  in  crimson  glory  over 
his  sharp  and  ruddy  face,  flashed  in  con- 
suming majesty  from  his  small,  round, 
gray  eyes,  and  poured  in  torrents  of  per- 
spiration over  his  square  and  narrow  fore- 
head. 

"  Sir,  Mr.  M'Bride,  and  gentlemen,  this 
is  too  bad  !"  he  exclaimed  ;  is  my  son  to 
be  discredited,  my  counsel  despised!" 

"  Suffer  me  to  interrupt  you,  Mr.  Glut- 
son,"  interposed  M'Bride  ;  "  the  trial  is 
over,  and  Henry  Warden  is  honourably 
acquitted." 

"  What !"  thundered  the  enraged  justice 
of  the  peace  ;  "  is  this  the  way  justice  is 
administered!  Is  this  little  jade,  the  sweet- 
heart, no  doubt " 


"  Silence !"  now  thundered  the  master  in 
his  turn.  "Mr.  Glutson,  this  is  my  school- 
house,  and  these  are  my  students.  I  am 
here  judge  and  jur)',  and  my  authority 
there  is  none  to  dispute.  If  I  have  per- 
mitted you  to  speak  at  all  it  was  not  be- 
cause I  wanted  your  opinion,  but  simply 
as  a  mark  of  respect  to  one  of  my  worthy 
patrons.  "You  are  now  taking  unbecom- 
ing liberties  with  the  character  of  my  pu- 
pils, whiclTis  as  dear  to  me  as  my  own, 
and  which  I  will  defend  with  my  life.  God 
forbid  that  I  should  chastise  a  gallant  boy 
for  resenting  and  punishing  a  wanton  insult 
to  an  innocent  girl !  Take  your  seat,  sir, 
instantly,  or  leave  the  house  !" 

This  command  was  not  to  be  disobeyed, 
and  taking  his  children,  William  and  Emi- 
ly, Nathan  slowly  withdrew  and  shook  off 
the  dust  of  his  feet  against  the.  school  of 
Alamance.  Children,  teacher,  and  parents, 
seemed  to  breathe  more  freely  after  his 
departure,  and  the  confections  left  in  the 
morning  were  discussed  with  a  lively  ani- 
mation. The  roll  was  then  called,  and  the 
Rev.  Dr.  Caldwell  rose  to  make  a  few  re- 
marks. His  discourse  was  short,  simple, 
and  sensible,  and  listened  to  with  profound 
and  respectful  attention.  The  reverend 
gentleman  was,  without  effort  or  ostenta- 
tious display,  eloquent  and  pathetic,  and 
brought  tears  from  more  than  one  ingenu- 
ous youth.  In  conclusion,  he  touched 
slightly  upon  the  gathering  dangers  of  the 
times,  spoke  of  a  coming  crisis,  and  ex- 
horted his  young  friends  to  emulate  the 
example  of  their  ancestors,  who  had  sealed 
with  their  blood  their  devotion  to  civil  and 
religious  liberty.  A  fervent  prayer  was 
then  offered  to  the  Throne  of  Grace,  and 
thus  ended  the  ceremonies  of  the  day. 

"  A  day,"  says  the  master  in  his  mem- 
oranda, "  famous  in  the  annals  of  Ala- 
mance, as  on  it  the  shadows  of  important 
coming  events  were  clearly  visible." 

What  these  events  were  we  shall  see  in 
the  sequel;  and,  in  the  mean  time, it  is  wor- 
thy of  mention,  that  as  Henry  Warden  took 
leave  of  Edith  he  dropped  into  her  basket 
a  note,  which,  when  out  of  sight,  she 
opened  and  read  as  follows  : 

"  Beware  of  the  Glutsons ;  believe  no 
prejudicial  story  about  me,  and  remember 
I  am  your  sincere  friend  forever.  What- 
ever happens,  or  wherever  I  may  happen 
to  be,  know  that  you  are  not  forgotten." 

The  contents  puzzled  her  no  little,  and 
so  she  went  home  pondering  on  them. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A    CHRISTMAS    DINNER    AT    ALAMANCE. 

"  Eddie,  my  daughter,"  said  Mr.  May- 
field,  on  the  night  before  Christmas,  "  to- 
morrow there  is  to  be  a  great  party  at 


ALAMANCE. 


Warden's,  and  I  wish  to  give  you  some 
advice  in  relation  to  your  conduct  there. 
You  are  my  only  child  and  heir,  the  sole 
representative  of  my  house,  and  in  you 
its  honour  must  be  sustained." 

"Why  do  you  talk  so,  father?"  replied 
the  girl ;  "  have  1  ever  disobeyed  you  in 
any  thing?" 

"  Never,  my  darling,  when  you  knew 
my- wishes;  and  1  am  now  going  to  ex- 
plain them  to  you  fully,  so  that  you  may 
know  how  to  act  in  future.  Come  and 
kiss  me,  and  I'll  begin." 

Edith,  seating  herself  in  her  father's  lap, 
and  throwing  her  arms  about  his  neck, 
fondly  kissed  him,  when  he  thus  proceed- 
ed : — 

"  It's  dangerous,  daughter,  to  form  early 
attachments,  friendly  or  otherwise.  We 
cannot  tell  when  young,  what  is  most  for 
our  interest;  and  I  have  known  persons 
to  be  unsuccessful  and  hampered  all  their 
lives  by  intimacies  they  formed  when 
young,  and  which  they  could  not  get  over." 

"But,  father,  we  ought  not  to  choose 
our  friends  from  interested  motives,"  said 
Edith  ;  "  and  I  thought  attachments  form- 
ed when  we  are  children  were  the  purest, 
because  our  hearts  are  then  better  than 
they  are  when  we  grow  older." 

"  It's  an  old  and  idle  tale,"  answered 
Mayfield  ;  "  and  no  sensible  people  believe 
it.  It's  a  sickly  sentiment,  the  mere  cant 
of  poets  and  visionaries." 

"  What  is  a  visionary  V  asked  the  daugh- 
ter. 

"  A  visionary,  child,  is  one  whose  imagi- 
nation is  stronger  than  his  judgement,  and 
who  mistakes  the  whims  and  dreams  of 
his  fancy  for  the  conclusions  of  reason. 
Henry  Warden  is  a  visionary,  and  has,  I 
fear,  been  tutoring  you." 

"  Indeed  he  has  not,  father,"  answered 
Edith,  with  animation  ;  "  he  never  taught 
me  any  thing  but  what  was  right,  and  he 
talks  more  sensibly  than  any  one  I  ever 
heard." 

"  So  you  may  think  now,"  rejoined  the 
father ;  "  for  you  are  yet  unable  to  answer 
his  sophisms,  and  to  see  the  absurdity  of 
hi3  fine-spun  theories.  My  love,  you  must 
not  be  so  intimate  with  Henry.  He  is  a 
good  boy,  generous,  just,  and  brave ;  but 
he  is,  as  I  said,  a  visionary,  and  he  may 
instil  into  your  mind  philosophy  that  is 
dangerous.  Besides,  people  are  beginning 
to  think  you  and  he  are  fond  of  each  other ; 
and  that  affair  of  to-day  will  make  a  great 
noise.  If  it  is  thought  a  girl  is  in  love,  i*t 
keeps  off  suitors — and " 

"I  want  no  suitors,"  exclaimed  Edith, 
rather  pettishly,  hiding  her  head  in  her 
father's  bosom. 

"  But  you  will  want  them  some  day," 
said  the  old  man  ;  "  and  for  this  very  rea- 
son you  must  not  suffer  them  to  come  about 
you  now.     If  you  are  too  free  with  Henry 


Warden,  you  may  never  have  any  beau 
but  him;  and  that  will  be  a  pretty  tale  to 
tell  of  the  beauliful  and  accomplished 
daughter  of  the  rich  Isaiah  Mayfield,  Esq. 
I  want  you,  some  day,  to  be  the  belle  of 
Alamance ;  and  after  a  brilliant  career,  to 
marry  worthy  of  yourself  and  of  me.  To- 
morrow, therefore,  you  must  be  cautiou3 
and  circumspect  towards  Henry  Warden. 
Every  body  will  be  observing  you  and  him ; 
and  you  will  be  the  general  talk  of  the 
neighbourhood,  if  you  don't  take  care." 

"  Father,"  said  Edith,  with  tears  in  her 
eyes,  "  if  it  will  please  you,  I  will  never 
speak  to  Henry  again." 

"  But  it.  won't  please  me ;  that  is  the 
very  thing  I  don't  want  you  to  do.  You 
must  not  quarrel  with  him,  nor  show  by 
your  manners  and  conversation  that  you 
think  enough  of  him  to  get  into  a  pet  about 
him  or  with  him.  When  you  speak  of 
him,  do  it  freely,  lightly,  and  kindly ;  when 
you  speak  to  him,  do  it  with  a  formal  po- 
liteness, a  cold  cordiality^  a  reserved  re- 
spect. Talk  to  him  familiarly,  but  not 
confidentially ;  do  not  smile,  but  laugh 
loud  and  carelessly  ;  and  when  you  look 
at  him,  gaze  as  earnestly  as  you  please, 
but  let  there  be  no  meaning  or  expression 
in  your  eyes.  You  may  think  this  strange 
advice,  but  your  father  knows  what  is  best 
for  you,  and  his  object  is  to  do  it.  Poor 
Henry  !  I  am  sorry  for  him." 

Edith  was,  too,  but  she  did  not  say  so  ; 
and,  in  fact,  her  commiseration  arose  from 
a  very  different  reason  from  that  which 
prompted  her  father's.  The  latter  knew 
exactly  the  sum  total  of  George  War- 
den's debts  ;  and  though  just,  honourable, 
and  honest, 

"  He  had  a  frugal  mind.". 

He  was  one  of  those  sedate,  moral,  and 
careful  souls  who,  though  they  cheat  no- 
body, have  no  real  affection  for  any  th,ing 
but  money,  and  who,  although  respected 
by  all,  are  loved  by  no  one  ;  who  are  non- 
committal on  everything  but  pounds,  shil- 
lings, and  pence ;  who  risk  nothing  in  he- 
half  of  their  best  friend  but  advice  ;  and 
who  graduate  their  esteem,  and  regulate 
their  bows  by  the  length  of  their  neigh- 
bours' purses.  They  are  kind,  good  peo- 
ple ;  so  says  every  body :  they  are  forms 
of  uncompounded  selfishness;  animated 
statues  of  stone;  walking  and  speaking 
automatons,  whose  negative  virtues  are 
often  worse  than  positive  vices  ;  so  thinks 
every  body.  They  believe  they  were  sent 
here  for  no  other  purpose  than  to  take  care 
of  themselves;  and  leaving  that  fair  sam- 
ple of  the  fraternity,  Isaiah  Mayfield,  fully 
absorbed  in  this  judicious  and  pleasing  oc- 
cupation, we  will  proceed  with  our  history. 
The  mansion  of  George  Warden  was 
considered  in  its  day  as  a  fine  specimen  of 
architectural  beauty,  and  its  great  age  evi- 


ALAMANCE. 


97 


denced  the  attachment  felt  for  it  by  the 
descendants  of  the  builder.  Jt  was,  how- 
ever, too  long,  too  low,  and  to  wide  to  suit 
the  more  polished  modern  taste ;  had  too 
many  sheds,  porches,  and  passages ;  and 
had,  withal,  windows  on  the  roof  to  light 
the  garret.  It  was  situated  on  the  brow 
of  a  long  hill,  and  surrounded  by  oaks  and 
walnuts,  whose  brawny  arms  had  buffetted 
with  the  storms  of  a  century,  and  inter- 
spersed with  which  were  catalbers,  locusts, 
and  cedars  of  a  smaller  growth.  From  the 
great  gate  in  front,  a  lane  led. down  the 
hill  to  the  creek  of  Liitle  Alamance,  and 
on  the  right  and  left  of  the  bridge  crossing 
the  creek  were  large  and  level  meadows 
dotted  over  with  an  occasional  elm  or  pop- 
lar. A  row  of  old  and  stately  sycamores 
lined  each  side  of  the  lane  from  the  gate 
to  the  creek,  and  broad  and  well-cultivated 
fields  were  everywhere  in  view.  The 
great  gate  stands  open  to-day,  and  a  troop 
of  negro  children  are  lounging  about  it, 
ready  to  clamour  "  Christmas-gift"  to  each 
new-comer,  and  to  take  his  horse  ;  a  large 
log-fire  is  blazing  in  the  hall,  and  serv- 
ants are  running  to  and  fro  in  busy  prep- 
aration. • 

Old  black  Ben,  with  a  solemn  and  por- 
tentous look  and  an  air  of  authority,  is 
everywhere  in  general  and  nowhere  in 
particular;  now  rectifying  the  fires,  now 
watching  the  progress  of  the  egg-beaters, 
and  occasionally  at  the  gate,  scolding  at 
the  mischievous  boys  and  looking  wistfuily 
down  the  lane.  The  quiet  of  the  morning 
is  soon  disturbed  by  a  great  hubbub,  and 
'the  guests  come  pouring  in,  till  the  hall  is 
filled.  George  Warden  is  to-day  unusually 
gay,  and  captivates  his  guests  with  that 
lively  and  witty  discourse  for  which,  in  his 
happy  moments,  he  was  more  remarkable 
than  any  man  of  his  time.  Every  trace  of 
pride  has  vanished  from  his  handsome  but 
aristocratic  face,  every  drop  of  acid  seems 
purged  from  his  temper,  and  on  all  subjects, 
except  the  literature  of  the  Greeks  and  Ro- 
mans, he  is  a  full  match  for  the  master  and 
the  parson.  "  His  ancient,  drouthy,  trusty 
crony,'1  Corny  Demijohn,  listens  with  both 
his  ears,  and  stares  with  both  his  eyes,  his 
heart  all  the  while  dancing  within  him  to 
the  ravishing  music  of  Warden's  voice,  and 
his  thundering  laugh  exploding  at  regular 
intervals  like  signal-guns  or  salutes  of  ar- 
tillery. Mrs.  Warden  is  also  cheerful;  but 
slight  lines  of  care  are  visible  in  her  noble 
face,  and  her  stately  form  has  lost  some 
of  its  majesty  by  the  blight  of  premature 
age.  She  welcomes  her  guests,  however, 
with  a  smile,  and  sends  a  warm  sunshine 
through  every  breast.  Her  three  children 
are  petted  and  caressed  by  every  one. 
Henry  sits  surrounded  by  the  old  men, 
who  find  in  him  an  attentive  listener  to 
their  reminiscences  of  the  men  and  events 
of  by-gone  times.    Kate,  the  second  child, 


is  "  spoke  for"  by  all  the  young  men,  and  in- 
cessantly kissed  by  all  the  old  maids,  while 
Wash,  sturdy  little  Wash,  a  miniature 
hero,  is  the  butt  of  all  the  sharp  shooters, 
upon  whom  he  occasionally  turns  the  ta- 
bles and  creates  roars  of  laughter  by  his 
witty  sallies.  Thus  things  were  progress- 
ing within  the  hall,  when  shouts  and  bois- 
terous laughter  in.  the  yard  brought  the 
crowd  to  the  doors  and  windows.  Emerg- 
ing from  one  of  the  negro  cabins,  there 
came,  in  a  sort  of  running  dance,  and  sur- 
rounded by  a  rout  of  negroes,  children,  and 
barking  dogs,  two  fantastic  figures  "in 
shape  and  stature"  unlike  any  thing  upon 
or  under  the  surface  of  the  earth.  They 
were  male  and  female,  and  as  loving  as  a 
married  couple  during  the  honeymoon. 
The  former  bore  some  slight  resemblance 
to  an  enormous  monkey,  walking  erect, 
having  on  his  face  a  mask  to  suit,  the  char- 
acter, and  a  black  bearskin  cap  upon  his 
head,  while  there  trailed  behind  him  along 
and  magnificent  tail.  The  other  had  not 
the  pendulous  ornament  that'  so  graced 
herjjartner,  nor  were  the  Egyptian  beau- 
ties of  her  face  concealed.  The  graceful 
rotundity  of  a  fat  ankle  peeped  from  un- 
der her  short  petticoats,  a  huge  turban 
waved  upon  her  head,  and  a  vast  prom- 
ontory behind  indicated  the  presence  of  an 
article  of  dress  which  has  since  become 
the  glory  of  modern  belles.  Each  was 
bedizened  with  party-coloured  rags  and 
strips  of  striped  cloth  that  waved  and  flut- 
tered in  the  breeze,  and  attached  to  which 
bunches  of  rusty  nails  kept  up  a  low,  jing- 
ling music. 

"  Clear  the  way  for  John  O'Cooner  and 
his  wife !"  some  one  cried  ;  and  on  they 
came,  singing  as  none  but  negroes  can 
sing,  old  John  O'Cooner's  song. 

A  ring  had  been  formed,  and  within  it, 
while  singing,  John  O'Cooner  and  his  wife 
immortalized  their  legs  by  feats  which 
would  astonish  Ellsler  or  Celeste.  The 
gallant  gentleman,  without  missing  a  step, 
made  frequent  efforts  to  kiss  his  spouse, 
while  she,  coy  as  a  maiden  of  sweet  six- 
teen and  active  as  a  roe,  would  baffle  his 
attempts,  and  sidle,  with  mincing  airs,  to- 
wards grinning  and  bashful  young  negroes, 
whom,  for  his  wife's  partialities,  John 
would  send  rolling  on  their  backs  in  the 
dirt.  Sometimes  a  sedate  old  bachelor 
among  the  white  men  would  be  the  object 
of  Dinah's  favours,  and  then,  while  the  gen- 
tleman blushed  and  ran,  the  crowd  huzzaed 
and  shouted.  Uncle  Corny  seemed  to  be 
her  greatest  favourite,  and  from  place  to 
place  she  pursued  that  solemn  bachelor, 
whose  troubles  excited  little  sympathy 
among  his  friends.  Small  bits  of  coin  were 
showered  on  the  hard  ground  and  miracu- 
lously gathered  in  a  pile  between  the 
dancers,  and  as  miraculously  disappeared. 
While,  however,  Dinah  was  annoying  the 


28 


ALAMANCE. 


timid  gentlemen  with  her  attentions,  her 
spouse  was  prodigiously  troubled  to  pre- 
serve his  tail  sacred  from  the  rude  touch 
of  mischievous  boys,  until,  at  length,  that 
glory  of  his  "hinder  side"  having  disap- 
peared, old  John  and  his  partner  retreated 
to  the  kitchen,  there  to  enjoy,  with  their 
fellow-servants,  their  Christmas  grog,  and 
to  divide  the  spoils — one  half  of  which  went 
to  John's  mother,  an  aged  and  decrepit 
negress. 

Shall  we  describe  the  sumptuous  dinner 
prepared  by  Mrs.  Warden  for  her  guests, 
and  how  it  was  duly  honoured  1  Need  we 
describe  t.he  great  bowl  of  eggnogg  which 
stood  in  the  centre  of  the  table,  and  from 
which  the  glasses  of  the  old  men  were 
often  filled,  while  those  of  the  young 
were  emptied  only  once  ?  Need  we  tell 
that,  after  dinner,  old  Ben,  with  his  pupil 
Ike,  scraped  more  music  from  their  fiddles 
than  they  had  ever  done  before  ] — that  the 
young  folks  romped,  tried  their  fortunes, 
and  practised  (the  male  ones)  with  iheir 
rifles  ;  ancf  that  the  old  ones  smoked,  told 
long  stories,  and  discussed  the  signs  of  the 
times?  Can  we  relate  the  troubles  of 
Uncle  Corny  with  the  frolic-loving  girls, 
the  antics  of  Rust,  or  the  discussions  of 
the  parson  and  master,  who  fell  into  a  fu- 
rious dispute  about  the  Greek  particles, 
and  each  of  whom  would  often  appeal  to 
Dixon  Tubroot,  who  was  listening  with 
edifying  attention,  and  who  understood  as 
much  of  the  matter  as  Sancho's  ass  did  of 
his  master's  conversation  1 

Lo  !  all  these  things,  together  with  what 
befel  sundry  diffident  lovers,  are  written  in 
the  Book  of  the  Chronicles  of  Christmas  at 
Alamance.  It  is,  however,  not  recorded 
there  that  Nathan  Glutson  had  the  temer- 
ity to  be  present  at  this  party,  and  that  he 
was  the  mildest,  the  smoothest,  and  most 
sweet-tempered  man  in  the  assembly — 
meekly  apologized  to  Warden  for  the  re- 
mark he  had  made  concerning  him  the  day 
before,  and  cultivated  Henry  with  devoted 
assiduity.  Nor  do  the  Chronicles  relate 
the  unhappiness  of  Isaiah  Mayfield  during 
the  day,  and  the  anxiety  with  which  he 
watched  his  daughter.  It  was  not  to  be 
expected  that  Edith,  young,  artless,  and 
ingenuous,  could  act  the  cunning  world- 
ling's part,  and,  at  her  first  essay,  she 
made  a  total  failure.  Recollecting  her  fa- 
ther's advice,  and  endeavouring  to  con- 
form to  his  wishes,  she  met.  Henry  War- 
den with  coldness  and  reserve,  excited  his 
suspicions  by  her  conduct,  and  finally  had 
a  quarrel  with  him,  after  which  they  spoke 
no  more  to  each  other  during  the  day. 
The  judge  never  could  catch  Edith's  eye, 
though  he  looked  often  towards  her;  Edith 
remarked,  also,  that  she  never  met  the 
glance  of  Henry,  though  her  eyes  were 
bent  not  unfrequently  on  his  face.  Edith's 
father  however,  saw  with  lively  sorrow 


that  she  and  Henry  were  both  sad  and  ab- 
stracted: he  saw  that  their  eyes  turned  in- 
cessantly towards'each  other,  and  he  ob- 
served that  once,  when  their  glances  met 
for  an  instant,  each  seemed  startled  and 
confused.  His  speculations,  painful  and 
profound,  on  the  incidents  of  the  day  were 
at  last  interrupted  by  the  arrival  of  a  stran- 
ger. The  new-comer  was  a  gentleman  of 
at  least  thirty,  rail,  muscular,  and  richly 
dressed,  and  seemed,  by  his  air  and  man- 
ner, to  have  been  accustomed  to  the  ex- 
ercise of  authority.  His  features  were 
harsh  and  prominent,  and  his  complexion 
swarthy,  while  a  deep  scar  upon  his  left 
temple  added  to  the  severity  of  a  face 
whose  expression  denoted  a  fierce  and  tur- 
bulent disposition.  The  stranger  at  once 
enquired  for  Nathan  Glutson,  to  whom  he 
handed  a  letter,  and  who,  after  its  perusal, 
introduced  him  to  the  company  as  a  Mr. 
Ross,  a  gentleman  of  character  and  conse- 
quence, from  a  distant  part  of  the  province. 
As  soon  as  this  ceremony  was  over.  Glut- 
son,  with  his  new  friend,  departed  for  hia 
residence,  leaving  the  assembled  crowd  to 
speculate  on  the  stranger's  appearance  and 
his  business.  • 

"  My  friends,"  said  the  Rev.  Dr.  Cald- 
well, solemnly,  "the  times  are  dangerous, 
and  it  becometh  every  man  to  be  watchful. 
I  grieve  to  say  it,  but  the  love  of  truth  and 
of  my  country  compels  me  to  declare  to' 
you  that  1  like  not  Nathan  Glutson.  I  be- 
lieve he  is  unfriendly  to  the  righteous  cause 
of  the  colonies,  and  I  believe  this  new 
friend  of  his  is  an  emissary  from  our  pres- 
ent wicked  governor.  Great  events  are 
on  the  wing — a  mighty  contest  is  approach- 
ing, and  the  sword  alone  can  decide  it.  I 
will  not  conceal  from  you  my  full  convic- 
tion that  war  is  inevitable,  and  it  will  be  a 
war  of  many  horrors.  Not  only  will  we 
have  to  fight  a  great  nation,  a  nation  who 
hate  us  as  rebels  and  traitors,  but  our 
friends  and  neighbours  will  lift  their  hands 
against  us.  Brother  will  be  against  broth- 
er— houses  will  be  divided  against  them- 
selves, and  kindred  will  shed  the  blood  of 
their  relations.  A  long,  a  fierce,  a  terrible 
conflict  is  before  us — sufferings  and  trials 
such  as  the  early  martyrs  endured  will  be 
our  portion.  We  must  choose  these,  or 
we  must  choose  slavery;  we  must  surren- 
der our  lives,  or  our  liberties  and  our  reli- 
gion. Who  will,  then,  be  for  his  country 
and  his  God  1  Who  is  prepared  lo  survive 
or  perish  with  the  glorious  cause?  Let 
him  stand  up  now,  that  I  may  see  who  will 
play  the  coward  or  the  recreant  at  Ala- 
mance !" 

.  There  was  a  momentary  silence  and 
hesitation;  when  Hector  M'Bride  sprung 
to  his  feet,  and  instantly  followed  Henry 
Warden  and  his  father,  Corny  Demijohn, 
Rust,  who  got  upon  a  chair,  Black  Ben, 
and  then   all,  old  and  young,  male  and 


ALAMANCE. 


29 


female,  excepting  only  Tsaiah  Mayfield, 
whose  painful  doubts  M' Bride  solved  by 
lifting  him  to  his  feet  and  holding  him-  in 
thiit  position.  The  evening  gloaming  was 
coming  on,  and  the  influence  of  that  still 
and  twilight  hour  was  felt. 

"And  now,"  continued  the  reverend  pa- 
triot, slowly  and  impressively,  "we  do 
here,  in  the  presence  of  each  other,  and 
before  Heaven's  high  chancery,  pledge 
ourselves  to  stand  by  our  country  and  by 
our  rights,  at  every  hazard,  and  at  the  risk 
of  health,  property,  and  life  itself.  Out- 
vow  is  recorded  in  heaven,  and  may  the 
God  of  battles  be  with  us  in  the  day  of  our 
trial!" 

"Amen!"  responded  many  voices,  and 
immediately  there  arose  in  the  yard  a  strain 
of  wild  and  plaintive  melody  that  melted 
6oftly  into  the  heart  of  every  hearer.  It 
was  one  of  those  simple  and  pathetic  airs 
so  common  among  the  negroes  of  the 
South,  and  which,  to  those  who  have  been 
accustomed  to  them  in  their  youth,  come 
like  the  music  of  Caryl,  "sweet  hut  mourn- 
ful to  the  soul,"  waking  in  their  breasts  in 
e^*ery  clime,  at  every  age,  and  in  the  midst 
of  the  busy  pursuits  of  avarice,  and  ambi- 
tion, recollections,  sad  and  tender,  of  the 
homes  of  their  childhood  and  of  their  thou- 
sand hallowed  associations,  of  scattered 
friends,  of  parental  smiles,  and  of  the  mer- 
ry and  dear  old  times  that  are  gone. 
Louder,  richer,  and  more  melodious  swell 
ed  that  strain  »now  sung  by  the  mellow 
voices  of  many  sable  minstrels,  till  many 
an  aged  cheek  was  moist  with  tears,  and 
withered  hands  were  locked  in  friendly 
embrace,  in  memory  "  o1  auld  tang  syne." 
As  the  last  notes,  more  solemn,  soft,  and 
pathetic,  died  away,  the  Alamancers  took 
a  silent  and  affectionate  leave  of  each  oth- 
er, the  old  full  of  reminiscences  of  the  past, 
the  yomig  of  bright  anticipations  for  the 
future. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

LIGHTS    AND    SHADOWS. 

Henry  Warden  retired  on  Christmas 
■night  to  a  sleepless  couch.  The  early 
beams  of  the  morning  had  gladdened  no 
bappier  heart  than  his  ;  the  shadows  of  the 
succeeding  night  summoned  to  rest  no  one 
more  wretched.  For  the  first  time  in  his 
life  he  began  to  reflect  on  the  strange 
anomalies  in  human  nature,  and,  with  emo- 
tions difficult  to  express,  he  read  a  new 
page  in  the  book  of  life.  He  was  affected 
by  the  conduct  of  Edith  Mayfield  more 
than  he  chose  to  acknowledge  even  to  him- 
self: and  for  a  while  giddy  with  the  new 
train  of  thoughts  which  her  conduct  in- 
spired, he  gave  himself  up  to  the  most 
gloomy    reflections.      The    behaviour   of 


Edith  indicated  a  disposition  that  aston- 
ished him  ;  and  if,  thought  he,  such  be  the 
character  of  the  purest  and  best,  what  is 
woman  I  Alternations  of  light  and  dark- 
ness flitted  through  his  mind,  but  the  fitful 
gleams  of  hope  seemed  only  to  deepen  the 
quick-succeeding  gloom,  even  as  the  lucid 
interval  in  the  fevered  patient's  dream 
serves  only  to  enhance  the*frightful  hor- 
rors of  his  perturbed  fancy. 

He  ran  over  in  his  mind  the  whole  his- 
tory of  his  acquaintances  with  Edith,  en- 
deavouring to  recollect  all  her  kind  words, 
looks,  and  actions,  to  satisfy  himself  that 
she  once  had  liked  him  more  than  she  did 
any  other.  He  thought  if  she  had  former- 
ly preferred  him  her  recent  conduct  was 
caused  by  jealousy,  or  some  private  pique, 
and  was  not,  therefore,  so  much  to  be  re- 
gretted. As  soon,  however,  as  he  persuad- 
ed himself  into  a  belief  of  her  attachment, 
the  whole  fabric  of  evidence  would  dis- 
solve and  melt  away,  and  leave  him  bit- 
terly lamenting  that  he  had  been  the  dupe 
of  his  own  fancy.  Then,  the  sooner  he 
could  forget  her  the  better.  So  he  reason- 
ed ;  but  as  soon  as  he  came  to  this  conclu- 
sion he  would  be  shocked  at  the  idea  of 
quitting  the  society  and  losing  the  friend- 
ship of  one  who,  from  childhood,  had. 
shared  all  his  thoughts.  The  dissolution 
of  ties  thus  formed  would,  he  felt,  sever 
every  other  that  bound  him  to  the  world, 
and  make  him  mistrust,  if  not  actually 
hate,  all  .his  kind.  Thus  troubled,  the 
night  was  far  spent  when  he  fell  into  an 
unquiet  sleep.  With  the  morning  came 
fresher  feelings  and  calmer  counsels,  and 
Henry  was  astonished  at  his  misgivings 
and  irresolution  on  the  night  before.  His 
determination  was  quickly  formed,  and  he 
was  confident  that  he  wouid  soon  come  to 
a  good  understanding  with  Edith.  That 
day,  however,  she  did  not  come  to  school, 
nor  the  next,  nor  the  next.  Impatient  at 
last  to  see  her,  he  persuaded  M^Bride  to  ac- 
company him,  on  Saturday,  to  her  father's. 
He  there,  to  his  great  surprise,  found  Will- 
iam Glutson  and  Mr.  Ross,  the  former  of 
whom  seemed  to  be  on  excellent  terms 
with  Squire  Mayfield,  while  the  latter  was 
paying  not  unacceptable  attentions  to  the 
daughter.  Henry  was  greeted  coldly  by 
Edith,  politely  by  her  father,  and  warmly 
and  kindly  by  Mrs.  Mayfield,  whose  man- 
ner seemed  more  cordial  to  him  than  it 
had  ever  been  before.  The  judge,  usually 
slow  and  cautious  in  forming  his  opin 
ions,  was  hasty,  firm,  and  decided  when 
his  judgment  was  fixed,  vand  threats  and 
persuasions  were  alike  unavailing  to  move 
him. 

His  determination  was  fixed  the  mo- 
ment he  saw  Edith,  and  that,  was,  to  de 
clare  himself  a  lover,  and  know  at  once 
her  opinion  of  him.  For  the  first  time  he 
acknowledged  to  himself  that  he  did  love 


30 


ALAMANCE. 


her,  and  as  he  gazed  on  her  while  in  ani- 
mated conversation  with  Ross,  he  wonder- 
ed that  he  had  never  before  known  how 
enchanting!)"  sweet  were  those  smiles  now 
lavished  on  another,  nor  remarked  on  the 
beauty  of  her  face  and  the  grace  of  her 
figure.  In  fact,  he  had  seen  before  only 
her  mind  and  her  heart,  and  held  commu- 
nion with  thern  ;  but  now  that  these  were 
estranged  from  him,  he  looked  with  admi- 
ration on  the  fair  casket  which  contained 
the  jewel  now  locked  from  his  sight. 

Edith  had  not  reached  her  fifteenth  year, 
but  mind  and  body  had  been  of  rapid 
growth.  Her  figure,  though  slight,  was 
beginning  to  round  with  full  proportions, 
and  she  was  in  that  delightful  state  where 
the  traces  of  the  girl  are  fading  and  the 
budding  woman  begins  to  appear.  Her 
form,  cast  in  a  mould  rather  slender,  was 
perfectly  symmetrical,  and  herlight, bound- 
ing step  showed  that,  though  delicate,  her 
constitution  was  not  frail.  Her  features, 
though  not  entirely  regular,  were  of  the 
Grecian  cast,  except  her  lips,  which  were 
rather  of  the  pouting  Egyptian  order,  and 
through  which,  when  parted,  were  dis- 
placed two  rows  of  diminutive  teeth,  which 
the  nicest  judge  would  have  taken  for  pearl. 
Her  complexion,  which  was  a  light  bru- 
nette, looked  whiter  by  its  contrast  with 
her  dark,  luxuriant  hair,  which  fell  over  a 
round,  smooth,  and  slender  neck,  and  sha- 
ded the  ever-fresh  roses  in  her  velvet 
cheeks.  The  crowning  glory  of  her  face, 
however,  was  the  expression,  more  intel- 
lectual than  passionate,  and  more  etherial 
than  intellectual,  lent  to  it  by  her  large 
and  tender  eyes.*  These  were  of  a  hazel 
colour,  were  very  slightly  convex,  and 
gleamed  with  a  perpetual  sparkle,  express- 
ing more  eloquently  than  words  could  do  the 
bright  fancies  and  the  innocent  thoughts 
of  a  heart  stainless  as  her  own  marble 
brow ;  of  a  soul  where  dwelt  truth,  tender- 
ness, and  sensibility.  It  was  impossible  to 
look  on  such  a  creature  without  feeling  an 
interest  in  her,  and  Henry  Warden  felt,  that 
he  had  rather  not  live  at  all  than  to  live  an 
exile  from  her  society.  Here  was  the  sun 
of  his  soul,  and  only  in  its  light  could  he 
be  happy;  and  yet,  with  the  whimsical  ca- 
price o.'  those  in  his  situation,  when  the 
subject  of  love  was  introduced,  he  ridiculed 
the  passion,  as  the  offspring  of  weak  minds 
and  of  distempered  fancies.  He  was  in  a 
whirl  of  excitement,  intoxicated  with  emo- 
tion, and  scarcely  knew  what  he  said,  and 
yet  never  had  he  been  so  witty  or  so  elo- 
quent. 

"  And  do  you  not  believe  that  there  is 
such  a  thing  as  love  1"  asked  Ross. 

''There  is,"  answered  the  judge,  "a  ten- 
der, refined,  and  sublime  sentiment  which 
proves  the  immortality  of  the  soul  in  which 
it  springs,  for  it  is  boundless  and  insatiable 
in  its  desires,  and  endless  in  duration.    It 


is,  in  fact,  the  incense  of  an  immortal 
spirit,  a  spark  kindled  from  a  celestial 
source,  and  marking  the  heart  in  which  it 
burns  as  an  altar  sanctified  by  the  Deity 
for  the  holiest  offerings.  Perhaps  all  of 
our  race — the  male  portion  of  it  at  least — 
are  capable  of  this  sentiment.  In  some, 
however,  the  flame,  when  excited,  burns 
feebly  and  dimly,  and  in  others  the  latent 
heat  is  so  smothered  by  the  intense  selfish- 
ness of  their  natures  that  it  can  never  be 
developed.  Fire  is  said  to  be  an  element 
existing  to  some  extent  in  every  substance; 
but  who  can  strike  sparks  from  ice,  or 
kindle  love  in  woman!" 

"If  she  have  a  soul — and  I  sometimes 
doubt  it — its  higher  attributes  are,  like  her 
personal  charms  in  a  fashionable  dress,  en- 
tirely concealed  and  distorted  by  the  freaks 
of  a  capricious  fancy." 

"  I  must  defend  the  ladies  from  your  as- 
persions," replied  Ross ;  "  I  will  not  an- 
swer by  arguments,  but  by  facts— facts 
which  1  know  of  my  own  knowledge.  I 
have  seen  instances  of  attachment  in  wom- 
en whose  devotion  was  proved  by  the  se- 
verest trials,  and  whose  disinterestedness 
was  shown  by  the  unworthiness  and  cruel- 
ty of  the  objects  of  their  love." 

"  And  that,"  said  the  judge,  "  only  proves 
my  rule.  Woman  may  love,  for  she  is  capa- 
ble of  the  passion  ;  but  did  a  gentleman  ever 
inspire  it  in  her?  Is  she  not  a  bundle  of 
such  singular  absurdities  that  her  love  and 
her  hatred  are  always  alike  misplaced  T  I 
sometimes  think  she  is  a  sort  of  living 
phenomenon  intended  to  represent  all  the 
passions — a  genuine  Pandora's  box — a 
piece  of  patchwork  made  up  of  the  odds 
and  ends  of  all  animals  in  creation — a  sort 
of  menagerie  in  herself,  where  the  dove 
and  the  kite,  the  serpent  and  the  sparrow, 
the  gilded  butterfly  and  the  unsightly  bat, 
the  gluttonous  sloth  and  the  air-feeding 
chamelion,  are  all  exhibited.  It  is  a  free 
show,  except  in  some  cases,  when  a  nup- 
tial ring  is  necessary  to  gain  admission  be- 
hind the  scenes  where  the  wolf  and  virago 
play  their  pranks." 

"  Now  I  know  you  are  jesting,"  exclaim- 
ed Ross,"  for  it  is  impossible  that  one  so 
young,  and  with  your  face,  can  have  a 
heart  so  bitter.  You  have,  perhaps,  been 
disappointed,  and  vent  your  spleen  in 
charges,  which  you  do  not  believe,  on  all 
the  sex." 

"  I  may  be  wrong,"  replied  Henry  War- 
den, "  and,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  hope  I 
am.  I  have  sometimes  dreamed  that  I 
might  yet  find  a  creature,  gentle,  tender, 
and  fair,  with  a  bright,  immortal  soul,  and 
a  heart  where  pure,  fervent,  and  eternal 
love  will  dwell,  growing  brighter  and 
brighter  amid  the  trials  of  life  and  the 
frowns  of  adversity.  I  once  believed  that 
such  would  be  my  fate,  and  sweet  was  that 
dream  of  my  early  boyhood !    It  was,  I 


ALAMANCE. 


fear,  a  mere  dream.  The  full  fruition  of 
such  love  would  equal  the  joys  of  the  pri- 
meval Eden,  and  we  are  told  that  a  flam- 
ing sword  forever  guards  that  Paradise 
against  the  entrance  of  fallen  and  sinful 
mortals." 

As  he  spoke,  his  eye,  for  an  instant, 
caught  that  of  Edith,  and  there  was  a  mean- 
ing in  her  glance  and  a  slight  glbw  upon 
her  cheek.  She  immediately  left  the  room, 
and,  when  she  returned,  her  manner  was 
again  cold  and  formal  towards  her  former 
friend.  The  judge  could  get  no  opportu- 
nity to  carry  out.  his  purpose,  and,  resolv- 
ing to  write,  he  and  M'Bride,  after  a  rather 
dull  and  cheerless  dinner,  took  the  road  to 
Warden's.  On  the  way  the  judge  opened 
his  heart  to  the  master,  and  declared  his 
intention  of  writing  to  Edith. 

"Be  guided  by  me,"  said  the  master, 
"  and  do  not  be  guilty  of  such  folly.  For 
the  present,  at  least,  your  suit  will  be  hope- 
less." 

The  Judge. — "  Do  you  think,  then,  she 
is  pleased  with  Ross  V 

The  Master. — "  By  no  means :  but  I 
know  that  he  is  pleased  with  her.  My 
young  friend,  I  wish  you  to  listen  atten- 
tively to  what  I  say,  and  remember  I  speak 
for  your  good.  Old  Mayfield  is  a  man  of 
correct  principles  and  honest,  purposes,  but 
he  has  not  the  nerve,  moral  or  physical,  to 
pursue  or  defend  the  right,  when  there  is 
the  least  opposition.  He  is  devoted  to  pol- 
icy, or,  rather,  if  I  may  say  so  of  a  good 
man,  to  cunning,  and  squares  his  life  by  a 
few  worldly  maxims.  Such  a  one  may  be 
successful  and  popular  in  the  '  piping  times 
of  peace,'  but  becomes  utterly  contempti- 
ble in  a  crisis.  A  crisis  has  arrived,  and 
our  friend  Mayfield  begins  to  waver  like  a 
reed  in  the  wind." 

The  Judge. — "But  what  is  all  this  to  the 
purpose  ?" 

The  Master. — "  Listen,  and  you  will  see. 
A  w^arwith  England  is  inevitable — a  long. 
a  bloody,  and  a  trying  war.  It  has  already 
begun,  and  it  will  end  only  with  the  exter- 
mination of  the  patriots  or  the  independ- 
ence of  these  colonies.  Mayfield  sees 
the  coming  storm,  and  he  is  beginning  to 
trim  and  shift  his  sails  to  suit  every  wind. 
His  heart  is  with  us,  but  he  wants,  in  the 
end,  to  be  in  favour  with  the  winning  side. 
Did  you  observe  his  conduct  to  Ross  and 
to  Ross's  friend,  Glutson,  who  struck  Edith 
the  other  day?" 

The  Judge. — "  I  did,  and  I  was  aston- 
ished." 

The  Master. — "I  was  not.  This  man, 
Ross,  is  from  the  Scotch  settlements,  and 
his  business  is  to  attend  to  the  interests  of 
the  royalists.  Nathan  Glutson  is,  beyond 
all  question,  opposed  to  the  patriots";  he 
is,  no  doubt,  known  to  the  governor,  and 
he  is  to  give  Ross  such  information  as  he 
may  want.     Glutson  knows  the  character 


of  Mayfield ;  he  has  made  his  son  apologize 
for  his  conduct  to  Edith,  and  has  sent  Ross 
there  to  win  the  old  man  over.  The 
Scotchman,  I  believe,  has  fallen  in  love, 
and  is  about  to  forget,  his  business:  and 
Mayfield,  to  whom  he  has  talked,  has  ob- 
served his  attachment  and  rejoices  at  it. 
He  is  undertaking  a  deep  and  heartless 
game — he  will  himself  cultivate  the  patri- 
ots, and  he  intends  that  his  daughter  shall 
conciliate  the  royalists." 

The  Judge,  passionately. — "  Then  Edith 
is  to  be  sacrificed  !" 

The  Master. — "By  no  means.  Old  May- 
field  intends  that  this  suit  s'hall  be  in  prog- 
ress during  the  war.  At  its  end,  if  we  are 
successful,  Ross's  hopes  are  blasted  ;  if  we 
are  defeated,  Edith  will  have  you,  if  she 
loves  you.  My  friend,  forget  her,  at  least 
for  the  present." 

The  Judge. — "I  cannot;  I  would  not, if 
I  could." 

The  Master. — "  Remember  your  own 
conversation  of  this  morning.  One  con- 
stituted as  you  are  should  never  love,  for 
it  will  lead  you  to  unutterable  misery. 
Your  passion  will  not  be  requited — it  can- 
not be  by  any  woman  on  earth." 

The  Judge. — "I  would  fain  believe  I  was 
wrong  this  morning;  and,  indeed,  I  had 
rather  be  dead"  than  to  believe  fully  what 
I  then  said.  Let  me  at  least  have  faith, 
and  hope,  for  what  would  life  be  without 
them?" 

The  Master — "The  beginning  of  happi- 
ness— such  happiness  as  grows  on  this 
barren  earth — is  skepticism.  Credulity  is 
the  parent  of  love,  and  love  is  a  delirium 
that  injures  all — wrecks  many.  See  the 
loorld  as  it  is  and  love  nothing,  and  you 
will  then  be  really  wise,  and  wisdom  is 
peace." 

The  Judge.—"  Sir,  let  me  remain  in  ig- 
norance forever,  if  such  be  the  wretched- 
ness of  wisdom.  But  it  cannot  be  so,  else 
why  did  our  Creator  endow  us  with  such 
capabilities?" 

The  Master. — "  Our  Maker  did  not  de- 
sign that  man's  sublimest  passion  should 
be  wasted  on  vain  and  perishable  things. 
All  must  learn  this  at  last.  I  have  learn- 
ed it  by  bitter  experience,  and  it  is  on  this 
account  I  obtrude  my  advice  upon  you.  I 
wish  to  teach  you  what  experience  sooner 
or  later  will  certainly  teach  you,  that  God, 
and  the  great  and  good  works  in  which  he 
delights,  must  engage  those  tender  and 
lofty  sentiments  of  which  you  are  capable, 
and  which  you  are  offering  now  at  the 
shrine  of  a  dumb  and  senseless  idol.  la 
the. infancy  of  the  world  the  nations  wor- 
shipped gods  of  wood  and  stone,  the  work 
of  their  own  hands  ;  even  thus  all  men, 
when  young,  offer  the  pure  adoration  of 
their  hearts  upon  the  altar  of  deities  blind 
as  Baal  and  Dagon,  and  which  their  own 
distempered  fancies  have  created  and  made 


33 


ALAMANCE. 


divine.  "When,  as  they  will  at  last,  their 
eyes  open,  and  the  altar  and  the  god  sink 
together,  the  disappointed  votary  destroys 
himself,  or  returns  to  the  true  God  and  to 
his  everlasting  purposes,  and  finds  an  an- 
chor for  his  soul.  This  Deity  is  now  en- 
gaged in  one  of  his  mighty  works,  and  to 
that  you  should' wed  your  heart." 

The  Judge. — "  Will  this  work  fill  the 
boundless  measure  of  my  love1?  Can  it 
satisfy  the  cravings  of  the  soul  after  the 
great,  the  grand,  and  beautiful!" 

The  Master.—"  It  will !  it  will !  It  is  the 
sublimest,  the  noblest  cause  that  ever  yet 
engaged  the  affections  of  men.  It  is  the 
great  cause  of  the  human  race,  now  about 
to  burst  its  fetters  and  assert  its  high  pre- 
rogative !  Prometheus  is  about  to  break 
his  bonds  ;  man  is  going  to  claim  his 
rights !  1  see  before  me,  in  the  dim  future, 
a  glorious  spectacle  ;  I  see  a  new  earth, 
and  a  new  people  ;  a  great,  a  noble,  and  a 
mighty  race,  whose  faces  shine  with  the 
majesty  of  freemen  ;  and  tyrants  and  their 
slaves  lie  buried  in  the  wrecks  of  the 
past!" 

The  Judge. — "  Are  you  not  dreaming  ? 
I  suspect  that  even  you  are  sometimes 
captivated  by  the  creations  of  your  own 
fancy." 

The  Master. — "  Henry,  I  am  not  an  en- 
thusiast, I  hope.  1  have  had  a  varied 
experience,  and  the  frosts  of  more  than 
thirty-five  winters  have  cooled  the  fires  of 
fancy.  I  have  seen  much — I  have  read 
much — I  have  thought  much*  J  have,  too, 
enjoyed  the  friendship  and  listened  to  the 
conversation  of  one  whose  name  will  be  a 
light  and  a  glory  to  all  future,  ages.  I  al- 
lude to  Dr.  Benjamin  Franklin,  who,  with 
me,  believes  that  a  new  era  is  about  to 
dawn.  A  great  revolution  is  about  to  be 
achieved,  and  those  who  assist  in  effecting 
it  will  be  revered  through  all  coming  time. 
In  this  glorious  cause  I  wish  you  to  enlist. ; 
I  wish  you  to  show  what  you  are,  kin- 
dred with  the  other  mighty  spirits  that  are 
blended  in  a  union  sublime.  Will  you 
dedicate  yourself  to  the  work?" 

The  eyes  of  the  judge  filling  with  tears, 
he  silently  took  the  hand  of  his  friend,  and 
for  a  moment  neither  spoke. 

"I  understand  you,"  said  the  master  at 
length;  "and  now  that  your  purpose  is 
fixed,  I  will  show  you  the  importance  of 
forgetting  Edith  by  a  chapter  of  my  own 
experience.  I  will,  if  you  will  have  the 
patience  to  listen,  give  you  a  sketch  of 
my  life;  and  you  will  see  that,  though  it 
has  been  like  that  of  others,  'of  a  mingled 
yarn,  good  and  evil,'  the  love-touches  have 
all  been  evil." 

The  judge,  expressing  great  willing- 
ness, and  even  curiosity,  to  hear  the  ad- 
ventures of  his  friend,  the  master  thus 
proceeded : 


CHAPTER  IX. 


THE    STORY    OF    HECTOR    m'bRIDE. 

My  father  was  a  canny  Scot ;  my  mother 
was  also  from  "the  land  o'  cakes;"  and 
they  were  married  in  Scotland.  Soon  af- 
ter this  event,  they  emigrated,  and  settled 

in  the  village   of :,  in  the  colony  of 

Pennsylvania.  My  father  had  a  few  hun- 
dred pounds  in  ready  cash,  with  which  lie, 
in  a  humble  way,  commenced  business. 
By  his  prudence,  frugality,  and  industry, 
the  small  store  soon  grew  to  be  a  large  and 
fashionable  dry-goods  establishment;  and 
at  last  he  was  reputed  to  be  one  of  the 
wealthiest  men  in  all  that  country.  Of 
course,  he  was  not  sparing  of  pains  or 
money  in  the  education  of  the  sole  heir 
to  his  fortune  and  representative  of  his 
name  ;  and  I  flatter  myself,  that  although 
an  only  child,  I  was  not  altogether  un- 
worthy of  this  care.  I  take  no  credit  to 
myself  for  not  being  a  rowdy  and  vaga-' 
bond,  like  other  sole  sons  and  heirs  ;  I  at- 
tribute it  all  to  the  manner  in  which  I  was 
raised.  My  mother,  who  is  now  a  bright 
saint  in  heaven,  was  my  first  teacher;  and 
under  her  tuition  I  remained  until  I  was  a 
lad  some  thirteen  years  old,  my  principles 
fixed,  and  my  habits  formed.  Thence  I 
was  transferred  to  a  select.  Latin  school, 
kept  by  a  clergyman  in  his  own  house, 
and  who  limited  the  number  of  his  pupils 
to  ten.  From  this  worthy,  exemplary, 
and  pious  man,  1  was  taken  at  the  age  of 
seventeen,  and  carried  to  Philadelphia, 
where  I  was  put  under  the  charge  of  the 
Rev.  Robert  M'Guire,  D.D.,  an  old  school- 
mate of  my  father,  a  learned  man,  and 
famous  divine.  He  was  a  bachelor,  and 
his  house  was  kept  by  an  ancient  maiden 
sister,  Miss  Kitty  M'Guire,  who  was  the 
exact  counterpart  of  her  brother,  bating 
only  the  roughness  of  his  manners  and  the 
extreme  cultivation  of  his  mind.  Miss 
Kitty  was  as  simple-hearted  as  a -child; 
so  whs  the  doctor,  her  brother,  and  so  was 
I.  My  preceptor  and  myself  saw  the 
world  as  it  was  reflected  from  the  mirror 
in  our  own  breasts  ;  we  studied  human  na- 
ture in  books,  learned  from  Plato  the  char- 
acter of  love,  and  believed  all  women  to 
be  Sapphos,  Penelopes,  and  Lucretins. 
My  final  destination  was  the  bar;  and.  as 
preparatory  to  this,  my  Rev.  friend — God 
rest  his  soul  ! — plunged  me  into  the  bot- 
tomless sea  of  metaphysics  and  theo- 
logies. Here  T  floundered  among  an  end- 
less jargon  of  names,  terms,  sects,  creeds, 
theories  and  systems,  and  grappled  about 
with  Catholicism,  Socinianism,  Arianism, 
Neologism,  and  a  thousand  other  isms,  at 
the  bare  recollection  of  which,  even  at 
this  distant  day.  my  temples  throb  and  my 
brain  aches.  But  my  teacher  was  really 
a  man  of  taste  and  learning;  and  so.  after 
fc'adin"  me  ihrouerh  the  dead  seas  of  ami- 


ALAMANCE. 


£3 


iquity,  he  polished  me  off  with  the  modern 
sciences  and  accomplishments;  in  short, 
I  was  what  I  thought  every  gentleman — 
■especially  every  legal  gentleman — ought 
to  be  :  a  thorough  scholar.  I  was  learned 
in  Latin,  Greek,  and  French;  mathemat- 
ics, physics,  and  metaphysics;  well  read 
in  poetry,  ancient  and  modern,  and  could 
make  gentlemanly  verses  in  several  lan- 
guages;  could  quote  history  a4  libitum, 
talk  learnedly  with  physicians  and  "natu- 
ralists, and  take  a  hand  in  the  discussions 
of  divines. 

Such  was  the  furniture  with  which  my 
■mind  was  equipped,  and  yet  I  was  not 
happy;  for  I  wanted  food  for  the  heart. 
In  all  my  occupations,  a  feeling  of  loneli- 
ness would  creep  upon  me — a  desire,  a 
longing  for  something,  I  knew  not  what. 
I  had  an  eye  for  all  that  was  beautiful  in 
nature  and  art;  an  ear  for  all,  that,  was 
melodious;  and  a  heart  that  rung  respon- 
sive to  every  touch  of  tenderness.  Every 
change  of  the  seasons — the  wild  flowers, 

•  the  solitary  woods,  the  blue  heavens,  the 
clouds  and  stars,  spoke  to  me  and  sang  to 
me  ;  but  they  spoke  of  the  sympathy  of  a 

■  gentle  being  whose  constellated  soul  they 
but  reflected,  and  the  burden  of  their  song 
was  love — love  pure  as  the  first  blossoms 
of  Spring,  tender  as  the  poet's  thoughts, 
bright  as  the  sun,  and  lasting  as  eternity. 
Who  was  she,  this  fair  and  gentle  being, 
whose  smile  lent  all  its  beauty  to  Nature ; 
whose  tenderness  was  the  light  of  the 
world?  I  took  it  for  granted  she  was  one 
of  my  female  fellow-mortals,  and  so  I  went 
to  look  for  her.  I  was  what  is  called  in 
the  schools,  verdant,  and  imagined  every 
woman  was  like  the  fairest  creations  of  a 
poet's  fancy.  My  fortune,  education,  and 
connections  gave  me  a  passport  to  the  first 
society  in  the  city  ;  and  I  was,  so  to  speak, 
soon  fairly  afloat,  an  unarmed  argosy  on  a 
pirate  sea.  Take  notice,  I  was  not  hunt- 
ing a  wife :  I  was,  in  fact,  determined  not 
to  marry  for  several  years,  and  was  only 
looking  about  me  for  my  pleasure,  about 
to  try  the  reality  of  love.  To  my  aston- 
ishment, I  was  everywhere  received  with 
kindness ;  and  I  thought  all  the  ladies 
seemed  to  vie  with  each  other  in  efforts 
to  make  me  happy.  I  found  every  one 
poetical,  literary,  and  sentimental ;  every 
one  laughed  with  me  at  those  gross  mor- 
tals who  were  distressed  with  the  mar- 
riage-mania, and  every  one,  believed  in 
pure  and  disinterested  love,  for  which,  and 
for  which  only  she  intended  towed.  What 
a  delightful  world  is  this !  thought  I ;  and 
in  the  mean  time,  as  I  fed  on  thoughts 
which  "  voluntary  move  harmonious  num- 
<bers,"  I  began  to  pour  out  my  heart  in 
rhymes,  all  of  which  were  admired  and 
■quoted.  To  show  you  in  what  miserable 
lollies  my  youth  indulged,  I  will  quote  a 

-nfew  of  my  epigrams  and  shorter  pieces, 
C 


all  of  which  were  impromptu,  and  caused 
by  some  remark  or  action  of  my  acquaint- 
ances. Miss  Malvina  Tinkerwhittle  was 
often  complaining  of  her  name — said  it 
was  unpoelical,  and  had  never  shone  in 
verse  or  history.  One  day,  hearing  her  so 
speak,  I  immediately  sat  down  and  wrote 
the  following: 

TO  .MISS  MALVINA. 
You  say  you  do  not  like  your  name, 

And  wish  you  had  a  sweeter  one  ; 
That  yours  was  never  known  to  fame, 

Nor  in  a  poet's  numbers  shone. 
If  of  the  past  these  words  be  true, 

The  future  surely  shall  be  thine  ; 
For  Fame  thy  beauty  soon  shall  woo, 

And  at  thy  feet  shall  be  its  shrine. 
E'en  now,  there's  one  to  whom  its  sound 

Is  sweeter  far  than  any  word 
That  is  in  any  language  found, 

Or  any  note  in  music  heard. 
I've  seen  it  writ  a  thousand  times — 

I've  seen  it  kissed  from  eve  to  morn— 
I've  seeu  it  in  a  hundred  rhymes, 

And  know  that  near  a  heart  its  worn. 
It  follows,  then,  that  all  that's  good 

And  fair  must  in  the  owner  meet ; 
For  none  but  a  dear  angel  could 

E'er  make  an  ugly  name  so  sweet ! 

Miss  Malvina,  who  was  much  tickled  at 
the  piece,  showed  it  to  her  friends  ;  and  the 
next  time  I  saw  Miss  Sophronia  Marryat 
she  attacked  me  for  having  been  more 
complimentary  to  others  than  to  her. 
What  could  I  do?  I  went  home,  and  that 
night  composed  the  following  verses,  which 
I  sent  to  her  next  morning  : 

TO  SOPHRONIA. 

You  say  I  never  speak  to  you 

In  honeyed  strains  of  compliment ; 
The  charge,  dear  one.  in  part  is  true, 

But  not  as  broad  as  it  was  meant ; 
For  if  my  lips  refuse  to  pay 

Just  tribute  to  thy  virtues  rare, 
My  heart  does  homage,  night,  and  day, 

And  all  thy  worth  is  pictured  there. 
There's  not  a  star  in  yon  clear  skies 

That  has  a  light  so  sweet  for  me, 
As  that  which  beams  from  thy  blue  eyes, 

So  full  of  love  and  purity  : 
There's  not  a  flower  in  all  the  field, 

That  is  to  me  so  passing  fair, 
As  thy  dear  face,  when  its  frowns  yield 

To  those  sweet  smiles  more  native  there  ! 
And  now,  while  nature's  locked  in  sleep, 

And  silence  rules  the  witching  hour, 
While  stars  their  quiet  vigils  keep, 

And  bind  me  with  a  mystic  power, 
While  yon  bright  queen,  with  glory  crowned, 

Lights  earth  and  heaven  with  her  soft  smile, 
Till  night,  beneath  her  sway  spell-bound, 

Seems  softly  sad  and  sweetly  wild, 
Dear  thoughts  of  thee  float  through  the  mind, 

Like  moonbeams  through  the  dusky  air; 
And  hopes,  in  darkness  long  confined, 

Now  gleam  with  soft  effulgence  there. 
Sweet  lady  then  forgive  the  lay 

That  breathes  my  soul's  long-cherished.aira, 
For  smothered  love  will  force  its  way, 

And  the  neart's  secret  hopes  proclaim. 
Forgive  this  once,  and  never  more 

My  heart  shall  force  its  silent  cell, 
But  Ihere,  withdarkness  curtained  o'er, 

Will  feed  on  tho  ghts  I'll  never  tell. 

A  few  days  after  the.  reception  of  these 


34 


A  L  A  M  A  N  C  £.. 


stanzas  by  the  lady  for  whom  they  were 
written,  the  lines  to  Miss  Malvina  Tinker- 
whittle  were  returned  to  me,  sealer!  up  in 
a  blank  envelope.  I  do  not  believe  I  am  as 
vain  as  most  men.Aet  1  am  mortal;  and  it. 
is  net  to  be  expected  that  I  can  with  indif- 
ference see  my  compositions  scornfully 
treated.  The  offspring  of  the  brain  is 
dearer  to  the  author  than  the  suckling  in- 
fant to  the  most  tender  mother  ;  and  this  is 
true  in  all  cases,  whalever  be  the  motive 
for  writing.  The  father  may  himself  think 
his  progeny  ungainly,  misshapen,  ill-fea- 
tured, and  even  monstrous;  still,  he  can- 
not endure  for  others  to  tell  him  so,  and 
those  whose  trade  it  is  to  point  out  these 
blemishes  to  unfortunate  parents  are  a 
generation  of  vipers,  or,  rather,  may  be 
compared  to  those  filthy  flies  or  insects 
who  feed  upon  the  sores  in  our  flesh,  and 
swarm  about  the  butcher's  shambles  in 
search  of  putrid  meat.  I  had  written  the 
effusion  to  Malvina  to  gratify  her  vanity, 
not.  my  own,  and  yet  when  she  sent  my 
production  back  1  was  wounded  to  the 
quick.  A  sharp  correspondence  sprung 
up  between  us,  and  from  pungent  it  got  to 
be  acrimonious,  and  finally  ended  in  a  bit- 
ter quarrel,  in  which  1  got  worsted  ;,for  it 
was  generally  reponed  that  1  had  made 
proposals  of  marriage  and  been  rejected. 
]  unfolded  all  my  sorrows  to  the  sympa- 
thetic Anastasia  Grindeman,  who  agreed 
with  ine  that  Miss  Malvina  was  very  un- 
reasonable, and  who  assured  me  that  she 
herself  knew  how  to  treat  the  coinage  of 
a  poet's  soul.  1  understood  her  at  once, 
and,  regretting  that  my  muse  had  slighted 
so  sweei  a  theme,  I  endeavoured  to  atone 
for  past  neglect,  and  wrote  to  her  volu- 
minously. Now  1  had,  in  the  mean  time, 
and  at  her  request,  put  a  ring  on  one  of  her 
fingers  with  a  wish,  and  at  her  command 
I  related  the  wish  in  rhyme.  1  will  repeat 
it  to  you. 

TO  ANASTASIA— A  Wish. 

We  all  were  wishing  t'other  day, 

Ami  curious  was  the  want  of  each  : 
Some  wished  for  fortune,  some  would  pray 

For  gilts  beyond  all  mortal  reach; 
While  others,  with  ambition  fired, 

With  princely  nower  aspired  to  reign  ; 
Some  wished  a  wife,  and  some  desired 

Exemption  from  all  earihly  pain; 
But  what,  sweet  lady,  would  \ou  guess 

Was  then,  and  is,  chief  wish  with  me  ? 
One  which  I  did  not  then  express, 

And  do  it  now  most  fearfully. 
You  hardly  will  believe,  i  fear. 

I  wished  I  were  the  thousandth  part 
In  her  unsullied  breast  as  dear 

As  she's  long  been  within  my  heart; 
For  if  I  were,  I'd  then  belieAe 

She'd  spend  with  me  one  life  at  least, 
Since  I  could  well  u  tlinnxand  live 

With  her,  and  be  forever  blest ! 

Tn  the  course  of  a  few  days  this  very 
innocent  production  returned  to  me,  and 
on  the  margin  were  these  words  : 


"  Miss  Anast'asie  has  duly  considered 
the  offer  of  Mr.  M'Bride,  and'  regrets  that 
she  cannot  accept  it.  She  esteems  him  as 
a  friend,  but  it  is  impossible  for  her  ever 
1o  feel  for  him  a  mure  tender  sentiment. 
She  will  be  obliged  if  he  will  forget  his 
unhappy  passion,  and  remember,  only  with. 


esteem, 


;  Anastasie." 


Suppose  the  blue  concave  above  us, 
which  some  believe  a  solid  body,  were  to 
crack  and  fall,  bringing  with  it  sun,  moon, 
and  stars,  crushing  worlds  together,  and 
heaping  the  universe  in  one  pile  of  ruins — 
could  you,  unharmed,  witness  all  this,  you 
would  not  be  more  astonished,  amazed, 
than  1  was  at  Anastasia's  note.  In  the 
utter  simplicity  of  my  heart,  I  immediately 
wrote  a  letter  to  the  lady  in  question,  po- 
litely informing  her  that  she  was  mistaken; 
to  which  she  answered,  briefly,  that  she 
was  sorry  I  took  her  for  an  idiot.  I  re- 
plied sharply  ;  a  caustic  rejoinder  followed, 
and,  finally,  she  became  fiercely  hostile, 
and  endeavoured  in  every  possible  way  to 
mortify  and  insult  me,  and  injure  my  rep- 
utation. She  accused  me  of  falsehood, 
deceit,  fickleness,  and  double-dealing;  ridi- 
culed me  as  wife-mad  ;  and.  among  her  fe- 
male com  pan  ions,  made  herself  merry  at  my 
expense.  My  troubles  were  now  thickening; 
my  poetry  began  to  return  from  all  quar- 
ters of  the  compass,  and  every  day  there 
was  a  servant  at  my  door  with  a  bundle  in 
his  hand.  On  some  pieces  there  were  the 
words,  "  Your  rhyming  trash  is  returned  ;" 
some  contained  notes  similar  to  that  of 
Anastasia  ;  and,  in  the  course  of  one  week, 
I  received  in  this  way  fifteen  refusals — at 
least  a  dozen  of  them  coming  from  ladies 
whom  1  had  not  seen  or  written  to  for  a 
month  previous. 

As  my  unfortunate  verses  came  shower- 
ing upon  me,  1'  noticed  a  singular  fact. 
The  ladies,  when  aiming  to  be  pleasing 
and  sentimental,  had  a  way  of  Frenchify- 
ing their  names,  and  I  never  received  a 
tender  or  a  complimentary  note  but  what 
it  was  signed  "  Bettie,"  "  Sallie,"  "  Marie," 
'•  Florindie,"  "  Peggie,"  "  Jtuthie,"  "  Mar- 
thie,"  &c.  &c.  Such  were  the  holyday 
signatures  with  which  they  shone  on  state 
occasions,  or  when  fishing  for  admirers; 
but,  when  venting  their  indignation,  their 
splenetic  effusions  came  in  the  homely 
names  of  '■  Elizabeth,"  "'Margaret,"  and 
"Sarah,"  in  full.  Thus,  I  began  to  think, 
you  keep  your  smiles  and  sweetness  for 
the  public;  your  frowns  and  claws  for  the 
unfortunate  wights  who  call  you  wives; 
but  this  was  a  sentiment  too  dangerous  to 
avow.  Accidentally  1  acquired  another 
rare  piece  of  information,  and  I  will  detail 
it  to  you,  that  you  may  understand  the  true 
character  of  those  creatures  whom  we  ab- 
surdly take  to  be  of  a  more  celestial  na- 
ture.   Would  you  think  it  I     I  ascertained, 


ALAMANCE. 


35 


from  sources  entitled  to  credit,  that  every 
handsome  girl,  as  soon  as  she  quits  school, 
sets  her  brain  to  work  in  the  composition 
of  a  pretty  sentence,  to  be  used  on  cer- 
tain interesting  and  momentous  occasions. 
Most  of  my  acquaintances,  as  1  under- 
stood, had  spent  weeks  in  this  grave  and 
improving  occupation,  and,  after  finally 
suiting  themselves,  first  recorded  and  then 
committed  to  memory  the  result  of  their 
labours.  Thus  all  the  suitors  of  each  lady 
were  rejected  in  precisely  the  same  lan- 
guage, and  thus  it  was  the  deceitful  things 
were  enabled  to  speak  so  prettily  on  such 
embarrassing  occasions.* 

About  this  same  time,  a  tall,  stout,  and 
whiskered  cousin  of  Sophronia  Marryat 
called  upon  me;  and,  after  a  very  dry 
salutation,  he  remarked,  twirling  his  whis- 
kers, that  he  had  come  to  demand  an 
explanation  of  my  conduct.  He  was  a 
gentleman  with  whom  1  had  been  intimate, 
and,  more  hurt  lhan  alarmed  at  his  manner, 
I  enquired  what  part  of  my  conduct  had 
given  him  offence — at  the  same  time  as- 
suring him  that  I  had  never  to  iny  knowl- 
edge desired  to  injure  him  in  any  way. 

"You  have  trifled  with  my  cousin,  sir," 
said  he,  fiercely,  "  and  you  must  fight. 
Here  are  two  pistols;  take  your  choice, 
and  let  us  settle  the  business  in  this  very 
room.  The  door  is  locked,  sir,  and  the 
key  in  my  pocket ;  and  if  you  do  not 
choose  to  fight  like  a  man,  I  shall  cowhide 
you  like  a  dog,  and  post  you  as  a  coward 
all  over  the  city." 

Now,  I  had  been  for  some  time  past  so 
much   engaged  with   my   many  quarrels, 

*  Note  by  the  Editor. — The  master,  from 
whose  papers  might  be  compiled  -'The  Curiosities 
of  Woman,"  preserved  the  formulae  alluded  to.  The 
writer  of  this  note,  believing  that  no  such  custom 
now  prevails,  hopes  he  will  be  gratifying  the  cu- 
rious, and  offending  no  one,  by  inserting  here  some 
of  those  sentences  that  in  their  day  pierced  many  a 
lover's  heart : 

"  You  have  my  friendship  ;  ask  me  for  no  more." 
"  I  cannot  love  you  ;  in  friendship's  name,  1  beg 
you,  do  not  distress  me  so  again." 

"  If  you  are  as  truly  my  friend  as  I  am  yours,  you 
will  not  again  ask  me  for  what  1  cannot  give ;  for 
the  will  has  no  control  over  the  heart." 

"  See  me  no  more,  or  see  me  only  as  a  friend." 
"  There  is  no  charm  to  win  the  heart :  its  love  is 
free." 

"  My  heart  is  free  :  you  never  can  enslave  it." 
"  1  thank  you  for  the  honour  you  have  done  me ; 
I  will  be  your  friend,  but  my  heart  I  cannot  control." 
"  The  fates  decide  to  us  divide, 

For  still  my  little  heart  says  nay; 
I  cannot  be  your  bonny  bride, 

But  for  your  happiness  will  pray." 
This   last   was   the   formula  of  a   nymph   who 
weighed  some  thirteen   stone  neat — j.  e.,  without 

her . 

"  The  spell  is  over,  the  charm  is  dissolved — 
I  love  thee  no  more" 
Was  used  by  several  coquettes  ;  and  the  following 
is  a  specimen  of  the  formula  to  be  wriitun  to  ab° 
sent  lovers:  » 

"  Ob.  never  must  we  meet  again, 
Unless  you  come  as  but  a  friend !" 


that  I  had  totally  forgotten  Sophronia  and 
her  poetry,  and  could  not,  for  the  life  of 
me,  understand  to  what  my  warlike  enemy 
alluded.  1  disliked,  therefore,  to  fight,  as 
it  were,  in  the  dark,  not  knowing  for  what 
I  was  risking  my  life:  but  equally  great 
was  my  dislike  of  the  cowhide. 

Sir,  1  am  a  schoolmaster,  and  it  ill  be- 
comes me  to  preach  against  the  use  of  the 
rod.  There  are  cases  that  demand  its  ap- 
plication; but  the  ingenuous  soul  will  never 
deserve  and  never  permit  such  a  degrading 
punishment..  My  back  lias  never  yet  been 
striped  by  parent  or  teacher;  and,  peaceful 
as  1  am,  and  much  as  1  fear  God  and  desire 
to  keep  his  commandments,  I  tell  yoti  that 
whoever  lays  a  whip  or  a  cowhide  on  me, 
in  anger,  must  "atone  for  it  with  his  blood. 
]  cannot  help  it;  and  I  pray  God  to  deliver 
me  from  the  temptation. 

I  arose  to  my  feet,  and,  taking  up  a 
chair,  I  informed  Sophronia's  cousin  that 
I  was  opposed  to  the  barbarous  and  mur- 
derous custom  of  duelling,  not  because  I 
feared  for  the  life  of  my  body,  but  for  the 
salvation  of  my  soul.  I  told  him,  also,  that 
1  was  not  afraid  of  him,  or  any  other  man 
on  earth,  and  that  if  he  attempted  to  strike 
me  with  the  emblem  of  infamy  which  he 
held  in  his  hand,  I  should  dash  his  brains 
out  on  the  spot.  "And  now,"  1  continued, 
"  if  you  cannot  act  like  a  rational  man, 
and  specify  your  cause  of  grievance,  yon 
will  please  to  leave  my  room,  or  1  shall 
find  a  passage  for  your  body,  although  the 
door  is  locked." 

Before  he  had  time  to  reply,  my  reverend 
friend  and  preceptor,  Dr.  M'Guire,  was 
making  a  great  fuss  at  the  door,  and  my 
room-.mate,  who  evidently  began  to  be 
ashamed  of  himself,  immediately  admitted 
the  parson.  The  old  gentleman,  suspect- 
ing the  business  we  had  been  engaged  in, 
roundly  lectured  us  both ;  and  when  he 
concluded,  Sophronia's  cousin,  who  was  a 
passionate  but  a  frank  and  generous  man, 
at  once  promised  that  the  quarrel  should 
end  for  the  present,  and,  to  satisfy 'the  doc- 
tor and  induce  him  to  withdraw,  he  hand- 
ed him  all  his  weapons.  I  now  learned 
that  Miss  Marryat  had  induced  her  cousin 
to  believe  that  1  had  solemnly  engaged  my- 
self to  her,  and  that  after  this  I  had  desert- 
ed her,  and  had  been  endeavouring  to  vic- 
timize others,  until  I  was  found  out.  I 
managed  to  satisfy  the  gentleman  of  his 
cousin's  falsehood— only  to  a  near  relation 
would  I  accuse  any  lady  of  falsehood — I 
showed  him  a  copy  of  the  unfortunate 
verses  I  had  given  her,  explained  the  cir- 
cumstances under  which  they  were  writ- 
ten, and  gave  ^  full  history  of  all  my  other 
scrapes.  Mis  indignation  was  now  direct- 
ed against  her,  and  lie  would  have  gone 
immediately  to  her  and  have  upbraided  her 
for  her  treachery,  but  1  would  not  let  him. 
He,  however,  became  my  devoted  friend, 


36 


ALAMANCE. 


warmly  espoused  my  cause,  defended  me 
on  all  occasions,  and  is  to  this  day  sincere- 
ly attached  to  me. 

When  he  left  me,  I  reflected  on  what  I 
had  heard,- and  fearing  that  Miss  Marryat 
might  consider  herself  in  fault,  I  went  im- 
mediately to  her,  and  made  proposals  of 
marriage,  which  she,  of  course,  rejected. 
I  did  not  press  the  matter;  and,  knowing 
that  a  second  offer  would  have  been  ac- 
cepted, I  was  careful  not  to  make  it. 

I  now  made  a  grand  discovery  ;  I  ascer- 
tained, in  the  first  place,  that  I  had  been  a 
.fool,  and, in  the  second,  that  the  ladies  had 
been  playing  upon  me.  I  found  #ut,  to  my 
utter  astonishment,  that  every  one  sup- 
posed me  to  be  a  wife-hunter,  and  that  this 
was  my  sole  occupation.  I  soon  ascer- 
tained the  cause  of  this  opinion,  fori  found 
that  the  minds  of  women,  long  before  they 
grow  up.  are  totally  absorbed  by  the  sub- 
ject of  marriage,  and  that  they  think  every 
time  a  gentleman  pays  them  a  visit  he  is 
looking  about  for  a  wife.  There  is  no 
social  intercourse  between  the  unmarried 
people  of  different  sexes  in  this  country, 
and  it  is  universally  supposed  that  every 
man  who  has  attained  his  majority  is  rab- 
id to  get  married.  Hence  I  was  regarded 
by  all  as  the  Great  Rejected — as  a  man  who 
had  determined  to  marry,  had  tried  every 
body,  and  been  refused  by  every  respecta- 
ble lady  of  his  acquaintance  ;  and  all  this 
happened,  too,  before  I  had  ever  made  up 
my  mind  to  wed  or  been  in  love.  I  found, 
also,  that  women  were  educated  for  one 
purpose,  lived  for  one  end,  thought  of  but 
one  thing,  to  wit,  to  get  husbands;  that 
their  simplicity  was  all  art,  their  tender- 
ness and  sensibility  all  feigned,  their  love, 
to  call  it  by  its  most  polite  name,  all  pas- 
sion ;  that  a  husband,  a  mere  man  with  a 
straight  leg,  a  good  estate,  and  a  fine  equi- 
page, bounded  all  their  wants,  filled  the  full 
;' measure  of  their  souls'  desires,  and  that 
hence,  because  I  was  not  a  marrying  man, 
I  had  got  into  trouble  with  the  sex.  I 
therefore  withdrew,  to  a  great  extent,  from 
female  society,  giving  way  to  a  new  star 
that  about  this  time  began  to  culminate. 

(This  was  a  medical  student  from  Virginia, 
and  a  very  unfair  specimen  of  the  cava- 
liers of  that  renowned  old  colony.  He 
was  of  a  low, -squat  figure,  with  a  short, 
thick  neck,  a  harsh,  dissonant  voice,  and  a 
j  face  indicative  of  nothing  but  the  most 
beastly  sensuality,  while  he  danced  and 
walked  like  a  drunken  satyr.  This  form 
was  the  tenement  of  a  weak  and  ignorant 
mind,  and  of  a  base  and  selfish  heart.  Me 
was  vain,  pompous,  and  impudent  as  the 
devil  himself;  in  all  his  feelings,  conver- 
'salion,  and  actions,  there  was  never  dis- 
'  played  the  faintest  spark  of  sensibility  or 
honour,  and,  take  him  altogether,  he  was 
the  purest  and  most  unmixed  compound  of 
vulgarity  and  brutal  passions  I  ever  saw. 


He  had  brought  to  Philadelphia  a  letter 
from  a  gentleman  resident'in  Virginia,  but 
known  all  over  the  continent  ;  and  in  this 
letter  he  was  recommended  to  various  fam- 
ilies in  the  city  as  the  only  scion  and  heir 
of  an  illustrious  and  wealthy  house  in  the 
colony  from  which  he  came.  Notwith- 
standing his  high  descent,  and  his  great 
pretensions,  he  was  universally  detested 
by  the  gentlemen,  not  a  few  of  whom,  dis- 
gusted with  his  effrontery  and  arrogant  as- 
sumptions,denounced  him  in  his  presence, 
and  some  even  went  so  far  as  to  spit  in  his 
face  and  strike  him  publicly  with  whips 
and  cowhides.  He  bore  these  things  meek- 
ly among  the  men,  and  became  a  hero 
among  the  women,  with  whom  he  was  ex- 
tremely popular,  and  who  permitted  him 
to  use  very  unbecoming  familiarities.  I 
have  observed  one  singular  peculiarity 
about  the  sex,  audit  is  worthy  of  n»to — 
they  are  governed  by  fashion,  and  they  will 
all  do  what  others  do.  Let  Hyperion  and 
Apollo  come  among  them,  and  be  sup- 
posed to  be  unpopular  with  the  sex,  and 
all  womankind  will  hate  them;  and  let 
Puck  and  Caliban  appear  at  the  same  time 
as  characters  who  have  been  successful, 
and  all  the  sex  dote  upon  them.  Thus  it 
was  with  the  Virginia  student.  Possess- 
ed of  a  little  cunning,  he  began  with  the 
vain  and  weak,  and,  succeeding  with  these, 
he  came  to  be  so  irresistible  that,  in  all 
cases,  he  saw  and  conquered.  All  fell 
before  him,  and  with  some  he  took  un- 
wonted freedoms  ;  but,  as  I  detest  tales  of 
scandal,  1  shall  not  repeat  the  many  infa- 
mous reports  that  were  current.  As  the 
popularity  of  this  gentleman  increased 
among  the  females,  mine  decreased  ;  and 
1  saw  that  multitudes  of  my  old  friends 
were  making  capital  out  of  the  imagined 
addresses  which  I  had  paid  them.  1  as- 
certained this  fact  by  a  peculiar  test,  in  a 
certain  fashionable  article  of  dress.  You 
must  know  that  ladies  estimate  their  own 
importance  according  to  the  number  of 
beaux  which  they  have  had  the  honour  of 
turning  off,  and  that  these  honours  are  evi- 
denced, not  like  the  degrees  in  our  colleges 
and  universities,  by  diplomas  on  parch- 
ment, but  after  the  manner  of  certain  ori- 
ental dignitaries.  Thus  we  had,  in  Phila- 
delphia, the  pashaw  of  one  tail,  of  two.  and 
of  three  tails,  or,  what  was  the  same  thing, 
one  tale  as  large  as  three,  and  some  of 
our  chief  belles  took  so  many  degrees  that 
their  identity  was  lost,  and  they  were  com- 
pletely swallowed  up  in  the  type  of  their 
glory.  Now  I  observed  that  most  of  my 
acquaintances  had  taken  a  new  degree,  and 
supposing  that  they  considered  I'his  acces- 
sion to  their  honours  as  causing  a  corre- 
sponding diminution  of  my  own,  I  avoided 
them,  and  mingled  only  with  those  who 
had  not.  grown  in  importance,  and  who  did 
not  seem   to  fancy  the  Virginia  student* 


ALAMANCE. 


37 


These  were  the  tests  by  which  I  and  other 
gentlemen  judged  the  merits  of  the  ladies, 
and,  judging  by  these  tests,  there  was  one 
who  greatly  won  upon  my  esteem.  She 
was  a  quiet  and  diffident  creature,  whom, 
in  the  days  of  my  glory,  I  had  scarcely 
observed,  and  who,  perhaps,  never  would 
have  attracted  my  attention  but  for  an  ac- 
cident. I  was  with' her  once  at  a  party, 
and,  some  one  desiring  to  hear  her  sing,  1 
was  delighted  with  the  sweetness  and  pa- 
thos of  her  voice,  and  by  the  words  of  her 
song.  As  I  remember  these  latter  even  to 
this  day,  and  as  they  have  a  peculiar  relish 
for  me,  I  will  repeat  them. 

EOTHA'S  SONG. 

"Some  love  the  morn's  pale,  twilight  gleams, 
And  some  the  evening's  golden  beams, 
While  others  crave,  with  fond  delight, 
The  deep'ning  shadows  of  the  night, 
When  the  blue  canopy  above 
is  lit  with  countless  eys  of  love. 
Tho'  every  phase  of  nature's  face 
Still  has  for  me  a  matchless  grace, 
Oh,  give  to  me  the  noon-tide  hour, 
To  lie  in  some  fair  rustic  bower, 
Where,  wafted  on  the, perfumed  breeze, 
The  softened  hum  of  distant  bees 
Falls  on  the  ear  in  melody, 
Like  far-off  spirit  minstrelsy  ! 
Sweet  fancies,  then,  of  brighter  climes, 
And  mern'rics  dear  of  by-gone  times, 
And  the  day-dreams  of  early  youth, 
When  I  knew  naught  but  love  and  truth, 
And  this  cold,  thorny  world  of  ours 
V/as  blooming  with  celestial  flowers, 
And  hopes  and  joys,  forever  fled, 
And  faces  of  the  early  dead, 
From  every  taint  of  eartlv  refined, 
Float  softly  through  the  dreamy  mind  ! 
I've  gazed  upon  all  earthly  toys, 
I've  tasted  of  all  worldly  joys, 
I've  bowed  at  Beauty's  gilded  shrines, 
I've  wept  o'er  Fiction's  melting  lines, 
I've  glowed  with  friendship's  thankless  flame  ; 
I've  felt  the  stings  that  follow  fame, 
I've  laughed  and  roamed  through  festive  hall, 
I've  drunk  of  love's  most  bitter  gall, 
And,  for  a  short  and  fleeting  hour, 
Have  worn  the  chains  of  wealth  and  power  : 
Yet  vain  these  pleasures  now  all  seem 
As  mocking  phantoms  of  a  dream, 
Am\  not  a  joy  can  this  earth  give, 
For  which  my  soul  would  deign  to  live; 
But  the  sweet  fancies  of  the  mind, 
And  mem'nes  dear  'o'auld  lang  syne.' 
Then  give  to  me  the  still  noon-tide, 
When  through  the  soul  sol't  visions  glide 
Of  vanished  hopes,  and  happier  times, 
Of  holier  love  and  brighter  climes  !" 

These  words  and  the  air,  as  I  before 
said,  made  a  deep  impression  on  me  ;  and, 
going  to  the  lady,  I  was  happy  to  find  that 
this  was  her  favourite  song.  We  soon  be- 
came intimate  ;  I  visited  her  often,  and 
every  time  1  saw  her  she  took  a  deeper  hold 
upon  my  feelings.  She  possessed  a  distinct 
individuality  of  character,  a  rare  thing  in  a 
woman,  for  they  are  generally  cut  bv  the 
same  pattern.  She  thought  much  for  her- 
self— another  rare  thing — and,  to  save  you 
a  long  description,  she  was  one  of  those 
precious  gems,  whose  beauty  and  whose 


value  are  ever  increasing  as  you  exam- 
ine them,  and  known  only  to  the  nicest 
judges.  She  was  inclined  also  to  be  pen- 
sive, and  finding  that  the  cause  was  her 
father's  fondness  for  the  young  Virginian, 
and  that  she  detested  him,  I  became  still 
more  interested,  and  soon  I  loved — with 
all  the  fervour  of  my  nature  I  loved  her. 
Those  who  can  say  so,  in  plain  words,  to 
the  object  of  their  preference  are  stran- 
gers to  the  passion.  My  actions,  my  man- 
ners, my  eyes,  my  verses,  and  my  presents 
told  her,  in  a  thousand  ways,  and  with  a 
thousand  tongues,  that  she  was  dear  to) 
me;  and  a  similar  language,  in  similar  but  | 
softer  ways,  she  spoke  to  me.  Just  at  this  I 
time  my  father  sent  for  me,  and  I  found 
him  a  bankrupt.  He  had  invested  three- 
fourths  of  his  estate  in  a  speculation  in 
Boston ;  his  partner  proved  to  be. dishonest, 
and  incompetent,  and  he  not  only  lost  all 
his  capital,  but  the  debts  of  the  concern,  to 
more  than  this  amount,  were  coming  on 
him  in  showers.  1  was  informed  that  I 
must  hereafter  rely  upon  myself,  and  that 
1  was  now  the  only  prop  of  my  parents  in 
their  declining  years.  I  returned  to  Phil-  I 
adelphia  for  my  books  and  clothes,  and  to 
declare  my  passion  to  Rotha. 

This,  you  will  say,  was  rash ;  but  you 
must  know  that  misfortunes  subdue  the 
heart,  and  press  out  its  secrets.  I  now 
felt  the  need  of  sympathy  and  of  affection 
to  sustain  me  in  my  trials,  and  desired  to 
know  certainly  that  I  was  beloved  ;  and 
then,  full  of  the  hope  and  energy  of  youth,  I 
would  strain  every  faculty  of  soul  and 
body  to  prepare  myself  for  a  happy  union 
with  the  sweet  object  to  whom  my  soul 
was  wedded.  With  tears  in  her  eyes  she 
had  bade  me  farewell  when.  I  left  the  city  ; 
with  a  bright  smile  she  welcomed  my  re- 
turn. I  at  once  declared  my  sentiments; 
and,  as  I  pressed  my  suit  with  the  elo- 
quence which  love  alone  can  inspire,  she 
wept  and  sobbed  in  my  arms,  and  referred 
me  to  her  father.  To  him  I  applied  by 
letter — a  long,  and  as  I  then  thought,  a 
masterly  production,  vindicating  my  pas- 
sion and  my  conduct,  and  pledging  myself, 
on  the  honour  of  a  gentleman,  never  to 
claim  the  prize  if  I  did  not,  to  the  letter, 
fulfil  any  condition  which  he  might  im- 
pose. I  asked  him  to  name  any  possible 
thing  I  was  to  do,  any  particular  time  I 
was  to  wait,  and  besought  him  not,  for 
mere  worldly  considerations  of  a  tempo- 
rary character,  to  consign  to  despair  and 
endless  misery  two  beings  whom  God  had 
destined  for  each  other.  To  this  letter 
there  was  a  polite  answer  from  Rotha's 
father,  informing  me  that  at  a- particular 
hour  he  would  wait  upon  me.  The  old 
man  was  rich,  and  his  daughter  was  an  only 
child ;  still,  he  kindly  but  firmly  opposed 
my  suit  because  1  was  not  ready  to  marry ; 
and.  having  enriched  me  with  many  "wis© 


S3 


ALAMANCE. 


saws  and  modern  instances,"  he  left  me. 
The  next  time  I  saw  Rotha  she  received 
me  with  a  formal  courtesy,  the  next  time 
she  was  evPft  rude,  and.  when  1  called 
again  sr/,e  was  not  to  be  seen.  1  had  re- 
course to  letters,  and  they  were  returned  ; 
I  poured  out  my  soul  in  poetry,  and  it,  too, 
CJime  back.  At  last  I  received  an  invita- 
tion to  a  small  and  select  evening  party  at 
Rotha's  father's,  and  went  there  to  find, 
that  on  that  night  she  was  to  be  married 
to  the  Virginian  student !  I  watched  for 
her  with  the  intensest  interest,  with  feel- 
ings I  shall  not  attempt  to  describe.  I  ex- 
pected to  see  her  approach  the  altar  a 
pale,  emaciated,  and  trembling  victim  ;  and 
lo !  when  the  bridal  party  came  out,  she 
approached  with  a  light,  firm  step,  and  a 
smiling  face,  and  went  through  the  re- 
sponses without  the  least  embarrassment. 
I  caught  her  eye  when  the  ceremony  was 
over,  and  she  smiled  without  confusion. 
With  a  heart  beating  wildly  and  a  brain 
on  fire,  I  approached  her,  and  addressed 
her  in  a  choked  and  husky  voice. 

"Are  you  unwell,  Mr.  M'Bride  ?"  she 
asked,  with  the  utmost  indifference  and 
simplicity. 

"No,"  I  replied — "  at  least,  my  body  is 
not  sick ;"  and,  taking  her  hand,  which  was 
not  affected  by  the  tremulousness  of  my 
own,  I  asked  her  if  she  was  happy.  I 
gazed  steadily  and  meaningly  into  her 
eyes,  which  steadily  returned  the  gaze, 
as  she  answered,  "  Perfectly  so  :  why  on 
earth  do  you  ask  such  a  silly  question  ?" 

My  heart  was  crushed — life  lost  all  its 
savour — the  whole  earth  seemed  instantly 
changed,  and  I  left  Philadelphia  to  return 
no  more.  My  father,  after  settling  up  his 
affairs,  saved  a  small  estate,  enough  to 
make  him  barely  independent;  but  his 
anxieties  and  his  misfortunes  undermined 
his  constitution,  and  he  went  the  way  of 
all  flesh.  My  mother  soon  followed  him  ; 
and  thus  I  was  left  alone  in  the  world, 
without  kindred  or  family.  I  built  a  mon- 
ument over  the  graves  of  my  parents,  and 
engraved  their  virtues  on  it,  sold  for  cash 
my  small  inheritance,  and  have  since  been 
a  solitary  wanderer,  to  whom  all  the  world 
is  a  highway,  and  whose  only  home  is  the 
public  inn.  Still  it  is  true,  as  Shenstone 
6ays, 

"  Who'er  has  travelled  earth's  dull  round, 
Where'er  his  footsteps  may  have  been, 
Will  sigh  to  think  he  still  lias  found 
His  warmest  welcome  at  an  inn." 

Yet  I  sometimes  think  others  have  a 
better  and  a  wanner  home,  and  a  feeling 
of  utter  desolation  steals  upon  me.  1  sit 
in  the  social  circle,  tell  merry  tales,  laugh, 
and  sometimes  romp  with  the  little  ones  ; 
but  when  1  retire  to  my  chamber  I  feel  an 
oppressive  burden  on  my  heart;  the  memo- 
lies  of  the  past,  all  clad  in  mourning,  stalk 


before  me,  and  look  sadly  on  me.  I  go  to 
my  window  and  look  out  upon  the  broad, 
blue  expanse  of  heaven,  glowing  with  its 
myriads  of  tender  eyes  that  speak  of  love, 
of  softly-whispered  sympathies,  of  dear, 
watching  ones,  whose  affections  cluster 
round  as  at  home ;  and  then  I  remember 
that  I  have  no  home,  and, sigh,  till  my 
wearied  soul,  soaring  above  the  earth— its 
petty  joys  and  sorrows — above  the  clouds, 
and  above  the  starry  canopy,  bathes  itself 
in  the  light  of  God's  eternal  love,  and  is  at 
rest! 

It  remains  only  to  be  said  that  my  suc- 
cessful rival  was  a  cheat,  a  base  impostor 
who  had  forged  the  letter  which  introduced 
him  into  fashionable  society.  The  gentle- 
man from  whom  it  purported  to  be  came 
to  Philadelphia  in  time  to  be  a  week  too 
late.  Rotha's  father  went  mad  and  died 
broken-hearted,  and  his  son-in-law,  soon 
spending  all  his  estate  in  the  wildest  ex- 
travagance, took  his  miserable  wife  and 
only  child,  and  ran  off  to  avoid  his  credit- 
ors. I  have  never  heard  of  him  since ;  and, 
may  God  forgive  me  for  it,  I  was  almost 
rejoiced  at  the  woful  discovery  made  by 
his  wretched  bride.  I  can  now,  however, 
and  do  regret  it ;  and,  if  in  my  wanderings 
I  ever  find  her,  I  shall  endeavour  to  relieve 
her  wants. 

Now  take  my  advice,  love  not  :  it  is  the 
forbidden  fruit  that  will  entail  wretchedness 
on  you  here,  and  may  wreck  your  soul's 
salvation  hereafter. 


CHAPTER  X. 

Then  there  mustie  delusion.' 


-Cain. 


Edith  Mayfield  came  no  more  to  the 
school  of  Alamance  during  the  remainder  of 
the  session.  Henry  Warden  wondered  at 
her  absence  ;  but,  fortified  by  the  counsels 
of  the  master,  and  absorbed  in  the  study 
of  military  science,  he  began  to  imagine 
that  she  had  passed  from  his  thoughts.  He 
soon,  however,  found  that  he  was  mis- 
taken ;  fpr  a  report  that  she  was  to  be  mar- 
ried to  Ross  getting  into  circulation,  he  be- 
came nearly  maddened.  Suspense  being  in- 
tolerable, he  determined  to  ascertain  his 
ownfate  by  letter;  and  so,  after  several  days 
of  study  and  composition,  the  epistle  was 
completed,  and  committed  to  the  charge 
of  Ben.  Notwithstanding  the  report  about 
Ross,  the  judge  felt  that  Edith,  in  public 
estimation,  was  too  young  to  be  addressed, 
and  he  was  apprehensive  that  even  she 
might  think  so  herself.  Yet  what  else 
could  he  do  1  He  could  not  see  her  alone ; 
she  was  evidently  peculiarly  affected  to- 
wards him,  and  she  was  surrounded  by  his 
enemies.  Besides,  Henry  Warden  had  a 
theory  of  his  own  in  regard  to  marriages, 
and  this  he  fully  developed  and  defended 


ALAMANCE. 


39 


in  his  letter.  He  believed  in  long  engage- 
ments and  in  early  marriages,  and  sus- 
tained his  notions  with  considerable  show 
of  reason. 

"Many  parents  think,"  said  he,  "that  it 
is  proper  their  daughters  should  not  en- 
gage themselves  until  some  time  after  they 
fiave  finished  their  education,  and  had  an 
opporl unity  to  look  around  them.  This 
doctrine  is  a  manifest  absurdity:  1st.  Be- 
cause it  is  well  known  that  woman,  at  all 
times,  forms  her  conclusions  more  from 
instinct  and  the  impulses  of  the  heart  than 
from  the  reflections  of  the  mind.  Man 
reasons  ;  woman  feels;  Thus,  then,  as  her 
heart  decides  the  matter  at  last,  why  not 
let  it  do  it  when  its  feelings  are  purest,  its 
thoughts  most  innocent,  and  its  impulses 
most,  generous'?  2d.  As  a  general  rule, 
females  depreciate  daily  from  the  hour 
they  finish  their  education  till  the  hour 
they  are  married.  This  is  obliged  to  be 
so.  They  do  not  read  to  any  extent;  in- 
deed, they  quit  books'  when  they  quit 
school.  They  are  not  learning  household 
matters ;  for  no  one  understands  these  un- 
til she  marries,  and  then  she  learns  almost 
by  intuition.  How,  then,  is  she  engaged  ? 
In  entertaining  visiters  ;  in  being  courted 
and  flirted  with,  forming  penchants,  thinking 
about  this  man  and  about  that ;  and  in  being 
flattered,  petted,  and  perhaps  having  her 
hand  squeezed  every  day  of  her  life.  Can 
she  be  surrounded  continually  by  a  troop  of 
amorous,  sighing,  caressing  gallants,  pas- 
sionately teasing  and  extravagantly  com- 
plimenting her,  and  still  remain  unchanged 
for  the  worse  !  Will  not  the  breath  of 
passion,  so  continuously  and  so  hotly 
breathed  around  her,  stain  at  last  the  spot- 
less purityof  her  virgin  heart]  In  addi- 
tion to  this,  is  she  not  daily  learning  the 
coquette's  arts  ? — becoming  more  and  more 
deceitful,  and  more  and  more  fond  of  atten- 
tions, displays,  parties,  balls,  and  public  en- 
tertainments 1  Is  a  constant  attendance 
at  such  places  at  all  necessary  to  fit  her 
for  that  quiet,  retired,  and  modest  life  of 
devotion  to  a  single  object,  which  she 
should  lead  when  married?  I  am  not 
afraid,  dear  Edith,  that  you  will  or  ever  can 
change  for  the  worse  ;  1  am  only  defending 
my  general  proposition." 

He  then  went  on  to  show  the  import- 
ance of  long  engagements. 

"  The  great  thing  necessary  to  en- 
sure future  excellence  or  eminence,"  he 
continued,  "is  to  have  our  aims  early 
fixed  on  some  certain  and  worthy  object, 
no  matter  what.  How  many  middle-aged 
and  old  persons  have  we  heard  lamenting 
that  the  best,  and  most  important  portions 
of  their  lives  were  wasted  in  aimless, 
trifling, desultory  amusements  and  studies! 
But  how  are  the  purposes  of  a  very  youth- 
ful mind  to  be  fixed  ?  I  answer,  only 
through,  the  heart.     Let,  then,  two  very 


young  persons  love  each  other,  and  se- 
riously engage  themselves,  and  what  will 
be  the  result?  Each  having  a  single,  cer- 
tain end  in  view,  neither  will  have  any 
time  to  spend  in  visionary  schemes,  in  idle 
thoughts,  in  wild  habits,  or  in  vain  experi- 
ments. They  would  have  ample  opportu- 
nities for  studying  each  other's  character; 
for  assimilating  in  tastes,  manners,  and 
feelings  ;  for  learning  how  to  bear  and  for- 
bear, what  foibles  to  make  allowances  for, 
what  infirmities  to"  humour.  When  two 
persons  are  wedded  together,  they  are  pro- 
nounced one  flesh;  and  yetthis  entire  as- 
similation of  different  minds,  hearts,  and 
bodies  must  he  effected  after,  perhaps,  a 
week's  acquaintance!  It  cannot  be  pos- 
sible ;  it  would  be  a  miracle.  No  ;  let  us 
now,  while  our  hearts  are  fresh  and  pure, 
dedicate  ourselves  to  each  other;  and.  if 
the  mere  engagement  becomes  burden- 
some, then  we  will  happily  escape  from  a 
more  intimate  union  which  would  make  us 
wretched.  Let  us,  before  Heaven,  sol- 
emnly contract,  ourselves  to  each  other; 
and  then,  after  years  of  trial,  with  hearts 
as  pure  and  fervent  as  they  now  are,  with 
chastened  desires,  with  tempers  tried,  ex- 
travagant expectations  discarded,  with 
kindred  and  harmonious  tastes, sympathies, 
and  feelings,  and  with' a  perfect  knowledge 
of  ourselves  and  of  each  other,  and  a  proper 
estimate  of  the  responsibilities  and  duties 
of  our  new  relations  to  each  other,  we  will 
consummate  that  union,  whose  yoke  will 
be  easy  and  whose  burden  light — a  union 
from  which  will  flow  a  sweet  serenity,  a 
quiet  contentment,  an  entire  and  unspeak- 
able, felicity,  to  which  grosser  mortals  are 
and  ever  will  be  strangers !" 

The  letter  then  concluded  with  an  ur- 
gent request  that  Edith  would  show  it  to 
her  parents,  and  return  an  early  answer. 

Black  Ben,  on  Saturday  night,  delivered 
it  to  her  maid,  and  from  her  learned  the 
very  satisfactory  intelligence  that  Ross  had 
made  proposals  of  marriage  to  her  young 
mistress,  and  been  rejected.  Edith,  after 
perusing  the  epistle  carefully  some  six  or 
seven  times,  handed  it  to  her  father,  whom 
it  filled  with  measureless  astonishment. 
In  fact,  that  worthy  old  gentleman,  not- 
withstanding his  very  moderate  estimate 
of  Henry  Warden's  practical  or  common 
sense,  was  completely  astounded,  and  very 
charitably  concluded  that  love,  or  some 
other  powerful  excitant,  had  totally  de- 
ranged his  young  friend's  intellects.  He 
suspected  also  that  Ross  loved  his  daugh- 
ter, and,  although  he  did  not  know  that  he 
had  addressed  her  in  a  formal  way,  he  sup- 
posed that  he  had  or  would  do  it  soon  ; 
but  he  also  supposed  that  his  object  was  to 
marry  her  immediately.  The  proposition 
of  Henry  Warden,  and  the  sublimated  rea- 
soning by  which  it  was  sustained,  were 
utterly  beyond  his  comprehension ;   and, 


*fl 


A  LAMA  N  U  E. 


being  a  prudent  and  well-disposed  gentle- 
man, he  secretly  resolved  to  keep  from  the 
knowledge  of  the  world  the  mental  afflic- 
tion which  had  visited  the  author. 

On  tiie  next  day,  Mayfield  was  early  at 
the  church,  and  meeting,  as  he  had  expect- 
ed, Henry  Warden,  he  proposed  to  him 
that,  they  should  take  a  walk  into  the 
woods. 

"  Mr.  Warden,"  said  he,  when  they  were 
beyond  the  reach  of  interruption,  "  rny 
daughter  Eddie  requested  me  to  hand  you 
this  letter  ;"  and  so  saying,  he  returned  to 
the  judge  his  own  epistle. 

Henry,  hastily  glancing  over  it,  saw 
that  not  a  sentence  or  a  word  had  been 
written  by  Edith  ;  and,  after  a  rather  pain- 
ful silence,  asked  timidly,  if  any  one  was 
offended. 

"No  one  is  offended,"  answered  Edith's 
father;  4i  but  my  daughter  was  surprised, 
and  requested  me  to  say  that  she  would 
be  pleased  if  you  would  not  write  again. 
She  is  but  a  child,  and  it  is  very  improper 
:to  be  writing  love  to  her  now." 

"  I  an1  sorry  I  wrote,"  said  Henry ;  "  but 
if  you  will  permit  me,  I  will  make  an  ex- 
planation which  will  satisfy  you  of  the 
propriety  of  my  conduct." 

"It's    a    delicate    subject,"    interposed 
Mayfield,  dryly, "  and  it  is  not  proper  for  a 
father  to  converse  upon  it.    Let  us  return." 
The  old  gentleman's  manner  prevented 
the  judge  from  again  alluding  to  the  sub- 
ject ;  but  he  could  not  but  wonder  how  it 
Was  proper  for  a  father  to  carry  a  letter 
from  his  daughter,  and  yet  be  improper 
for  him  to  speak  of  its  contents  ;  and  still 
more  strange  did  it  seem  to  him,  that  what 
was  commendable  in  the  conduct  of  Ross 
should  be  censurable  in  his  own.      It  is 
needless  to  undertake  to  describe  Henry 
Warden's  feelings ;  every  reader  who  has 
been  a  rejected  lover  will  understand  them, 
and  those  who  have  not  gone  through  the 
experience  can  form  no  conception  of  it. 
It  is  said  to  be  a  crushing,  sickening  sen- 
sation, that  suddenly  comes  on  a  man  with 
overwhelming  force,  destroying  the  vital- 
ity of  the  heart,  and  causing  one  lo  feel 
not  only  mean  and  wretched,  but  utterly 
indifferent  towards  the  pursuits  of  pleas- 
ure and  gain,  and  the  prospect  of  suffering 
and  death.     Thus  the  judge  was  becalm- 
ed ;  nothing  for  a  while  could  excite,  in- 
terest, or  amuse  him.     By  degrees,  how- 
ever, his  elastic  feelings  began  to  revive; 
and  after  much  perplexing  deliberation,  he 
satisfied  himself  Edith's  father  was  labour- 
ing under  a  mistake,  and  that  this  was 
the  cause  of  his  (the  judge's)  misfortunes. 
Would  not  she,  if  left  to  herself  at  least, 
return  an  explicit  and  satisfactory  answer? 
He  supposed   she  would,   and    wondered 
why  he  had  not  thought  of  a  matter  so  ob- 
vious.    He  suspected  that,  restrained  by 
-motives  of  delicacy,  she  had  not  exhibited 


his  letter,  which  was  sealed  in  an  enve- 
lope when  he  received  it  back  ;  and  hence 
he  concluded  that  the  old  people,  thinking 
he  wished  to  marry  now,  had  become,  offend- 
ed. Every  thing  now  seemed  explicable  ; 
and,  again  resorting  to  his  pen,  he  wrote  a 
short  and  polite  letter  to  Mayfield,  inform- 
ing him  that  he  had  not  made  propositions 
of  marriage  to  his  daughter,  but  had  only 
wished  to  engage  himself  to  her;  a  pro- 
ceeding which,  he  said,  he  supposed  could 
give  no  offence  to  her  parents.  He  fur- 
ther remarked,  that,  if  there -was  anything 
about  his  conduct  which  he  (Mayfield)  ob- 
jected to,  or  could  not  understand,  he 
hoped  it  would  be  candidly  mentioned,  and 
an  opportunity  given  to  have  it  explained. 
"  Let  there  be  no  shadow  between  us," 
wrote  the  judge  ;  "  and  that  there  may  not 
be,  let  us  freely  unfold  our  hearts." 

Now  it  so  happened  lhat  Mayfield  had 
no  heart  to  unfold,  while  the  shadow  to 
which  Warden  alluded  was  to  the  old 
man  an  Egyptian  darkness,  which  even 
a  meridian  sun  could  not  disperse.  He 
was  fully  confirmed  in  his  belief  of  Hen- 
ry's mental  aberration,  and,  like  all  men 
who  properly  appreciate  the  gifts  of  wis- 
dom and  intellectual  health,  he  treated  his 
neighbour's  malady  with  the  greatest  ten- 
derness. He  wrote  to  him  a  polite  'an- 
swer, in  which  he  declared  that  he  was 
not  offended,  that  ho  fully  understood  the 
whole  of  the  judge's  conduct,  and  remark- 
ed that  he  would  take  the  liberty  of  advis- 
ing his  young  friend,  with  great  respect, 
to  abandon  his  purpose.  "When  you  get 
older,"  concluded  the  old  gentleman,  "  you 
will  see  the  folly  of  your  present  course', 
and  will  not  blame  me  for  having  kindly, 
but  firmly,  admonished  you  to  cease  your 
fruitless  efforts  for  my  daughter.  Your 
conduct  is  embarrassing  and  unpleasant  to 
us  all." 

"  Embarrassing  and  unpleasant  to  os 
all!"  ejaculated  Henry  Warden  to  himself: 
"  then  Edith  is,  of  course,  displeased." 

It  is  said  that  drowning  men  will  catch 
at  straws ;  but,  whether  this  be  true  oj 
false,  it  is  very  certain  that  young  gentle- 
men desperately  in  love  give  up  all  hope 
with  extreme  reluctance.  While  fortune 
•blows  fairly  and  their  mistresses  smile 
sweetly  they  are  sensitive,  captious,  and 
easily  give  themselves  up  to  incredulity 
and  despondency  ;  when  they  are  blown  up, j 
utterly  rejected,  they  are  more  than  ever 
disposed  to  believe  that  they  are  beloved, 
and  will  build  immense  expectations  upon, 
the  most  trivial  and  unmeaning  words  and 
looks.  The  judge  strangely  convinced 
himself  that  Edith  must  have  tender  feel- 
ings for  him,  and  being  now,  in  vulgar 
phrase,  at  the  end  of  his  row,  he  again 
had  recourse  to  the  advice  of  the  master. 
In  the  mean  time  his  conduct  excited  no 
1  little  gossip  among  his  friends. 


ALAMANCE. 


41 


"  They  did  gossip,  even  at  Alamance," 
says  the  master  ;  "  and  where,  I  should 
like  to  be  informed,  is  the  place  on  the 
whole  earth,  lo/»  ovbr.  tcrraiiim,  where  there 
are  no  gossips  V  Yes,  they  did  gossip  at 
Alamance,  and  they  did  have  there  post- 
riders,  who  brought  news  "in  advance  of 
the  mails."  How  ihey  got  it  was  a  mys- 
tery ;  for  Henry  Warden  and  the  master, 
and  Edith  Mayfield  and  her  parents,  were 
the  only  persons  in  the  secret,  and  they 
strictly  held  their  peace.  Nevertheless, 
information  of  what  had  taken  place,  with 
numberless  embellishments  and  additions, 
got  abroad,  and,  for  two  whole  weeks,  the 
names  of  the  judge  and  of  Edith  were  con- 
stantly in  the  mouths  of  every  body.  They 
had  expected  it — the  wise,  shrewd,  know- 
ing old  ones  had  expected  a  blow  out,  for 
they  had  observed  that  Henry  Warden  was 
somewhat  daft.  The  young  men  and  boys 
had  not  expected  it,  nor  would  they  then 
believe  that,  as  they  had  heard,  their  friend 
had  first  tried  to  marry  a  girl  clandestinely, 
and  afterwards,  when  her  father  found  it 
out,  threatened  to  shoot  him  if  he  did  not 
give  up  his  daughter.  As  to  the  old  maids, 
they  were  entirely  satisfied  that  Warden 
had  been  properly  punished ;  and  thus, 
wished  they,  may  it  happen  to  every  fool 
who  has  the  bad  taste  to  prefer  giddy  and 
wayward  young  children  to  more  sen- 
sible, affectionate,  and  riper  beauties. 
Henry's  sensibilities  were  too  delicate  to 
permit  him  to  talk  upon  the  subject;  in- 
deed, he  was  too  proud  and  contemptuous 
of  the  world's  opinion  to  make  any  ex- 
planations, ani  so  the  public  was  left  to 
fabricate  its  owa  intelligence,  and  to  dis- 
cuss it  at  its  leisure.  The  old  censured, 
the  young  men  warmly  defended  him,  and 
the  girls  tittered,  and  began  to  regard  him 
as  a  monster;  and  thus  his  popularity  was 
not  a  little  shaken. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

A  SAGE  CONVERSATION  AND  A  8AGE  CONCLU- 
SION. 

The  man  who  wins  our  admiration  in 
one  respect  is  endowed  by  us  with  every 
great,  and  agreeable  attribute.  Thus  Hec- 
tor M'Bride,  to  whom  every  woman's  heart 
was  a  Cretan  labyrinth,  and  who  never  found 
the  Ariadne  clue  to  any,  was  consulted  by 
Henry  Warden,  and  considered  by  him  as 
his  wisest  counsellor  in  regard  to  his  pres- 
ent straits.  The  master,  though  not  a 
misogamist,  was  certainly  not  a  lover  of 
the  diviner  sex,  and  could  not  be  supposed 
to  look  with  patience,  or  even  tolerance, 
on  the  foolery  of  love-making.  Still  his 
was  a  heart  that  melted  at  every  tale  of 
wistchedness,  and  that  abhorred  every  spe- 
cies of  injustice.     He  was  convinced  that 


Henry  Warden  had  been  wronged ;  he 
was  touched  with  his  sorrows,  and  he  was, 
withal,  a  little  curious  tcvsee  the  progress 
and  conclusion  of  a  suit  which  had  so 
strange  a  beginning.  He  was  mortal  and 
a  bachelor,  ahd  was,  if  not  delighted,  at 
least  secretly  pleased  when  his  friend,  the 
judge,  on  the  first  convenient  opportunity, 
disclosed  all  the  particulars  connected  with 
his  case,  and  asked  advice. 

"  Woman  is  a  strange  anomaly,''  said 
the  master,  "  and  the  more  I  see  of  hep 
the  more  am  I  puzzled  by  her  character. 
I  have  in  my  time  mastered  difficult  stud- 
ies ;  I  have  even  gained  a  reputation  for 
skill  in  abstruse  sciences,  and  yet,  al- 
though from  my  youth  up  I  have  applied 
myself  with  great  diligence  to  the  exam- 
ination of  woman's  psychology,  I  know 
less  of  it  now  than  I  do  of  the  Eleusin- 
ian  mysteries." 

"  Edith  Mayfield,"  replied  the  judge,  "  al- 
ways seemed  to  me  to  be  remarkably  can- 
did, artless,  and  easy  to  be  understood.  I 
used  to  think  one  might  tell  by  glancing  at 
her  face  the  very  thoughts  that  were  pass- 
ing in  her  mind." 

"  That  is  the  way  in  which  they  all  de- 
ceive us,"  returned  the  master;  "if  their 
faces  were  not  so  demure  and  innocent- 
looking  we  would  not  be  so  completely 
taken  in.  We  read  in  their  eyes  faith, 
simplicity,  and  tenderness  ;  we  see  in  their 
conduct,  deceit,  distrust,  and  heartlessness. 
Is  there  any  living  thing  so  deaf  to  the 
calls  of  mercy  as  a  lady  who  has  a  whim 
to  gratify  V  Let  her  but  set  her  heart,  if 
she  has  one,  on  a  trifle,  she  would  see' 
cities  desolated  and  the  world  wrapped  in 
flames  before  she  would  abandon  her  pur- 
pose. Recollect  that  Eve,  the  best  and 
purest  of  the  sex,  could  not  forego  the  tast- 
ing of  an  apple,  although  she  knew,  from 
Almighty  God  himself,  that  that  simple  act 
would  damn  millions  of  her  posterity  to 
wretchedness  here  and  eternal  perdition 
hereafter." 

"  Eve  was  cunningly  tempted,"  answer- 
ed Warden,  "  and  overcome  in  a  thought- 
less hour.  You  must  remember  that  the 
father  of  lies,  the  archfiend  himself,  worked 
upon  her  heart." 

"  And  does  not  the  archfiend  work  upon 
the  hearts  of  all  her  daughters  V  asked  the 
master.  "  I  have  thought  much  about  the 
matter,  and  have  nearly  come  deliberately 
to  the  conclusion  that  woman  is  a  general 
nuisance.  It  is  through  her  that  the  devil 
assaults  our  race,  for  she  forms  the  most 
assailable  point  through  which  to  attack 
the  soul  of  man.  We  would  be  less  vul- 
nerable if  there  were  no  such  thing." 

"  That  was  more  harshly  said  than 
meant,"  exclaimed  the  judge  ;  "  for  I  know 
you  think  better  of  the  sex.  But  we  are 
rambling  from  the  subject.  The  question 
now  is,  what  am  I  to  do  1     I  desire  only 


ALAMANCE. 


the  simplest  and  the  easiest  thing  on  earth  ; 
1  want  only  to  know  what  Edith  Mayfield 
thinks  of  me.  Is  it  not  strange  that  she 
and  her  father  should  attempt  so  to  mystify 
tnaV 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  was  the  master's  an- 
swer; "this  would  not  be  the  world  it  is 
if  every  body  was  not  trying  to  mystify 
every  body  else.  Suppose  every  one  should 
expose  his  heart — J  do  not,  of  course,  speak 
of  the  wicked  and  the  evil-designing — but 
suppose  all  those  whose  intentions  are 
good  should  take  pains  to  make  those  in- 
tentions known,  how  many  heart-burnings, 
quarrels,  feuds,  and  even  wars,  might  be 
prevented!  When  man  first  offended  the 
Maker  the  worst  part  of  his  punishment 
•was  not  that  he  fell  to  a  state  of  sin  and 
misery.  These  are  but  the  results  of  that 
eternal  fatuity  with  which  he  was  cursed. 
The  world — 1  use  the  thing  for  that  which 
it  contains — the  world  is  an  ass,  and  it  is 
my  settled  conviction  that  it  will  always 
remain  one.     I  must  write  a  book." 

"  And  in  the  mean  time,"  said  the  judge, 
"will  you  be  pleased  to  tell  me  what  I  am 
to  do;  for  I  am  incapable  of  judging  for 
myself,  /have  exposed  my  heart  to  Edith 
and  her  father ;  what  interest  can  they  pos- 
sibly have  in  keeping  me  in  the  dark  ?" 

"That  question  displays  your  simplicity," 
replied  the  master;  "  you  may  as  well  ask 
what  interest  Mayfield  has  in  being  a  gros- 
sum  caput,  a  dunderhead,  as  Swinburne  has 
it ;  and  what  does  it  profit,  a  woman  to 
play  the  fool.  Nevertheless,  something 
must  be  done,  and  this  is  my  opinion. 
Every  body  supposes  that  every  body  else 
is  trying  to  deceive  him  or  her,  and  hence, 
when  you  are  exposing  your  heart,  and 
acting  with  the  most  perfect,  candour,  you 
create  alarm  and  excite  suspicions.  It  is 
folly,  therefore,  to  be  ingenuous,  and  you 
must  have  recourse  to  deceit  and  artifice. 
Now,  if  you  can  in  some  way  astonish 
Edith,  and  let  me  be  present  at  the  time,  I 
flatter  myself  that  I  can  form  a  correct 
opinion  as  to  her  sentiments  concerning 
you." 

"  How  would  it  do,"  enquired  Warden, 
"to  let  her  know  that  I  am  going  to  leave 
Alamance  soon,  and  not  return  for  years, 
if  ever  V 

"Very  well, indeed."  answered  the  mas- 
ter; "and  if  you  can  insinuate  this  infor- 
mation in  a  delicate  way  so  much  the  bet- 
ter. You  should  da  ii  in  such  a  way  that 
she  would  not  suspect  your  object,  and 
would  believe  that  you  were  simply  taking 
leave  of  her — bidding  her  farewell  in  such 
a  way  as  to  represent  yourself  as  being 
extremely  sorry,  without  appearing  to  be 
a  lover.  Now  this  can  only  be  done  by 
poetry ;  and  my  advice  is,  that  you  write 
lier  a  farewell  piece,  and  that  you  touch 
upon  the  most  delicate  sentimentality,  and 
yet  say   nothing   about  a   broken    heart, 


blighted  affection,  or  eternal  love.  Yea 
understand  me." 

'•  1  think  I  do,*'  said  the  judge,"  and  ah 
though  it  is  hard  for  me  to  rhyme,  I  will 
try  my  hand." 

Accordingly,  he  set  himself  to  work,  and, 
while  the  master  was  fast  asleep,  he  com- 
posed the  following  piece : 


"TO  EDITH. 

ON   HEE   QUITTING    SCHOOL. 
'Oat  of  sight,  out  of  miud.' 


None  but  a  gross  and  fickle  soul 

Could  such  a  sentence  e'er  have  penned. 
For  there  are  those  of  finer  mould 

Whose  boundless  friendship  knows  noend; 
And  when  the  loved  are  '  out  of  sight,' 

And  distance  throws  its  pall  between. 
How  tender,  then,  in  mein'ry's  light, 

In  every  hour  they  stdl  are  seen  ! 
Each  place  where  the  dear  one  has  been, 

The  starry  night,  the  forest  lone, 
And  every  fair  and  quiet  scene, 

Reminds  us  of  the  loved  and  gone. 
The  loved  and  gone  !  oh  ne'er  shall  fad 

The  niem'ry  of  that  gentle  one, 
Till  mouldering  in  the  earth  is  laid, 

The  heart  where  she's  the  only  sun  ! 
The  circling  seasons  stiU  may  bring 

Their  changes  in  Time's  wasting  race. 
From  summer  skies  and  flowers  of  sprint, 

Will  smile  on  me  thy  changeless  face; 
While  autumn's  paie  and  withered  leaves, 

And  snowy  lawn  and  ice-clad  trqe, 
i  And  every  sigh  that  winter  heaves,*. 
*    Shall  whisper  sad,  sweet  thoughts  of  thee. 
I'll  think  of  thee  as  on  the  dead 

Who  left  me  in  my  early  years, 
O'er  whom  unbought  affection  shed 

Its  saddest  and  its  holiest  tears  : 
I'll  think  of  thee  as  on  the  dreams. 

The  happy  dreams  of  by-gone  times, 
Those,  ne'er  forgotten,  hallowed  gleams 

From  fairer  worlds  and  bflghter  clime3— 
In  youth,  in  manhood,  and  in  age, 

In  all  the  lights  and  shades  of  life, 
When  fortune  smiles,  when  tempests  rage, 

In  festive  hall,  in  battle's  strife  ; 
At  morn — at  noon,  at  day's  still  close, 

When  "*dewy  eve  weeps  o'er  the  lea,' 
And  during  night's  profound  repose, 

Oh  then  I'll  still  remember  thee  ! 
And  as  I  close  my  fading  eyes, 

When  life's  last  mortal  sands  are  run, 
With  visions  of  the  upper  skies, 

Shall  mingle  thoughts  of  thee,  sweet  one!" 

"  Now,"  said  the  master,  rubbing  his  eyes 
and,  taking  charge  of  the  above  production, 
"you  will  see  how  I  can  map  out  an  un- 
known continent.  To-morrow  night  I  will 
bring  you  a  chart  of  her  mind,  delineated 
with  as  much  accuracy  as  any  geograph- 
ical picture  of  the  moon  taken  by  the 
sharpest  astronomer." 

When  M-Bride  found  himself  upon  the 
road  to  Mayfield's,  with  Warden's  poetry 
in  his  pocket,  he  began  to  reflect  upon 
his  situation.  This  is  a  pretty  business, 
thought  he,  for  a  grave  man  and  a  school- 
master. What  would  the  world  think,  if 
it  could  see  me  acting  as  a  go-between  for 
star-gazing  lovers? — me,  Hector  M'Bride, 
who  set  out  to  reform  the  abuses  of  th.8 


ALAMANCE. 


43 


world,  engaged  with  sober  interest  in 
sounding  the  shallows  of  a  giddy  little 
maiden's  heart.  "To  what  base  uses  may 
we  return !"  Still,  this  matter  is  not.  alto- 
gether beneath  the  notice  of  the  philoso- 
pher; every  man's  heart  is  a  little  world 
in  itself — every  woman's  an  unknown  sea 
on  which  the  most  skilful  mariners  have 
been  lost.  It  is  worth  the  while  to  try 
this  ocean  farther ;  for,  though  many  an 
adventurous  sailor  has  been  wrecked  on 
bleak  and  barren  shores,  who  knows  but 
what  some  one,  more  fortunate  than  the  rest, 
may  yet  reach  those  fabled  islands — those 
gardens  of  the  Hesperides,  where  man  may 
dwell  in  a  state  of  beatitude,  inhaling  the 
fragrance  of  perennial  blossoms !  The 
consentient  opinions  of  all  mankind  agree 
that  there  is  such  a  place  in  woman's 
heart,  though  it  has  never  yet  been  found. 
If  I  should  make  the  discovery,  what  a 
figure  it  will  cut  in  my  book !  I  will  be- 
come more  famous  than  Columbus,  Cabot, 
or  Americas,  for  I'll  lead  the  way  to  a 
Paradise ! 


CHAPTER  XII. 


THE    CHART. 


"I  am  almost  afraid  to  ask  you  what 
took  place,"  said  Henry  Warden  to  the 
master;  "but  any  known  calamity  is  bet- 
ter than  a  state  of  doubt.  Out  with  it, 
therefore*,  and  let  me  know  the  worst." 

"  I  promised  to  make  a  chart,"  answer- 
ed M'Bride — "  to  prepare  a  full  and  accu- 
rate map  of  her  heart — and  I  have  done  it. 
Perhaps  a  careful  examination  of  it  will 
enlighten  you  more  than  any  thing  I  can 
say.     Will  you  look  at  it  1" 

"Not  till  I  hear  what  became  of  the 
poetry,"  replied  the  judge.  "  Did  she  read 
it  in  your  presence  ?  How  did  she  look  • 
What  did  she  say  and  do  ?" 

"  She  did  not  read  or  see  the  poetry  in 
my  presence  or  in  my  absence,"  said  the 
master. 

"  Then  what  did  you  do  with  it  ?"  asked 
the  judge. 

,"  1  did  nothing.  Old  Mayfield  remained 
with  us  in  the  room  ;  and  finding  that  I 
should  get  no  opportunity  of  speaking  pri- 
vately to  his  daughter,  I  took  my  pencil 
and  wrote  on  the  back  of  a  letter  that  I 
had  something  of  importance  to  deliver  to 
her,  and  asked  her  how  I  should  manage 
to  get  it  to  her.  I  then  handed  her  the 
letter,  saying  aloud  as  1  did  so,  that  there 
was  a  Latin  sentence  which  had  puzzled 
the  best  scholars  in  my  school. 

"  If  I  were  to  try  my  hand  at  it  I  should 
certainly  fail,"  she  replied,  and  gave  me 
back  the  letter. 

Kereat  her  father,  who  knows  not  a 
word  of  any  language  except  his  mother 


tongue,  became  curious  to  hear  the  sen- 
tence. 

"  Ad  solum  defunctum  conglomeralo  in 
niibibu.s"  1  answered ;  and  the  old  man 
made  his  daughter  take  down  the  words, 
the  sound  of  which  tickled  him  prodi- 
giously. He  insisted  that  his  daughter, 
unassisted  by  me  or  Ross,  should  make  an 
effort,  and  was  satisfied  that  she  could  ren- 
der the  sentence  into  English,  and  there- 
by enhance  her  already  fair  reputation 
for  learning  and  acuteness.  This  modern 
Solomon,  in  whose  head  all  the  wisdom 
of  the  earth  is  garnered  up,  even  tOok  a 
copy  of  the  words  himself,  being  determ- 
ined, he  said,  to  take  Edith's  lexicon  and 
try  his  hand.  He  has  an  opinion  that  the 
rays  of  his  mind  can  illumine  the  darkest 
subjects,  and  for  weeks  he  will  bruise  his 
brains  over  the  sentence  I  gave  him,  and 
will  at  least  see  as  far  into  iis  meaning  as 
he  can  into  a  mill-stone  ;  or,  what  is  just 
as  hard  to  him,  into  the  philosophy  of  any 
thing.     Here  is  your  poetry,  sir." 

"  Alas !  what  shall  I  do  *"  asked  the 
judge,  with  the  most  dejected  manner. 

"  Look  at  this  map,  my  friend,"  said  the 
master,  "and  it  may  comfort  you.  It  is 
carefully  collated  from  the  most  authentic 
sources,  and  I'll  vouch  for  its  perfect  ac- 
curacy." 

"  What  sort,  of  a  map  do  you  call  this?" 
asked  the  judge.  "  I  see  nothing  here  but 
a  blank  piece  of  paper,  with  the  words 
i  terra  incognita  et  fabulosaj  written  in  the 
centre,  and  round  >}hem,  in  large  letters, 
'  Vanity,  an  impassable  gulf.' " 

"That,"  answered  the  master,  "  is  the 
most  satisfactory  description  which  can 
be  given  of  any  woman's  heart.  That 
there  is  such  a  thing,  we  learn  from  tradi- 
tion, and  the  speculations  of  psycholo- 
gists ;  but  its  character  and  its  uses  have 
been,  and  ever  will  be,  shrouded  in  mys- 
tery." 

"Alas!"  exclaimed  the  judge,  "what 
shall  I  do?  Every  thing  and  every  body 
is  against  me,  and  yet  I  have  never  wished 
injury  to  any  one.  What  would  I  not  give 
to  know  how  I  stand  with  Edith?  What, 
Mr.  M-Bride,  shall  I  do?" 

"Do!''  cried  the  master  :  "do  your  duty 
to  your  God  .and  your  country,  and  let 
things  take  their  course.  Do  you  suppose 
you  can  mend  matters  by  whining  like  a, 
whipped  school-boy,  who  bellows  as  loud 
as  he  can,  to  excite  a  general  sympathy? 
If  you  do,  you  are  much  mistaken ;  and  I 
am  astonished  that  you  will  permit  the 
whims  and  freaks  of  an  idle-brained  and 
silly-hearted  girl  to  so  unman  you."  , 

"  Sir!"  said  Henry  Warden,  pacing  the 
room  in  great  excitement,  "  its  easy  to 
talk  and  give  advice,  and  bear  with  forti- 
tude the  misfortunes  of  others.  It's  still 
easier  to  prate  about  our  duties  to  our 
God  and  to  our  country ;  but  those  who 


44 


ALAMAN  C.E. 


are  most  ready  thus  to  prate  are  the  most 
childish  when  misfortune  overtakes  them. 
For  myself,  I  profess  not  to  be  one  of 
those  stoics  who  look  on  paiu  and  pleas- 
ure as  mere  ideas  of  the  mind,  and  easily 
to  be  avoided  by  a  simple  volition  of  the 
will.  There  are  many  ills  that,  flesh  is 
heir  to,  and  not  the  least,  of  them,  talk  as 
you  will,  are  the  pangs  of  despised  love. 
What  do  we  live  for  1  To  be  happy  ;  and 
the  enlightened  and  generous  soul  in  pur- 
suit of  this  object  will  despise  many  things 
that  the  vulgar  and  ignorant  regard  as  the 
most  substantial  good.  You  may  prate  as 
you  will  about  solid  studies,  grave  pur- 
suits, important  occupations,  great  desires, 
and  .all  such  sickly  stuff.  What  "does  it 
amount  to  1  Those  who  cant  most  about 
such  things  are  themselves,  with  solemn 
concern,  grasping  at  bubbles  and  chasing 
shadows.  No  one  can  or  need  desire  more 
than  his  own  happiness;  and  where  can 
the  good,  refined,  and  ingenuous  man  find 
it  except  in  the  full  fruition  of  love,  the 
highest  attribute  of  immortal  beings  1  I 
leave  to  others  to  break  their  bones  and 
rob  their  nights  of  rest  in  the  vain  and 
sensual  pursuits  of  avarice,  ambition,  mal- 
ice, and  the  animal  enjoyments  of  the  ta- 
ble and  the  bottle ;  for  me,  1  want  only  to 
spend  my  days  on  earth  with  a  being  kin- 
dred with  those  whose  society  will  be  one 
of  the  chief  delights  of  heaven.  She  is 
good ;  Edith  Mayfield  is  as  pure,  as  amia- 
ble, as  tender,  refined,  and  generous  as 
she  is  fascinating  and  beautiful,  and  I  shall 
no  longer  hear  with  patience  reflections 
on  her  character.  She  is  dearer  to  me  a 
thousand  times  than  all  the  rest  of  the 
world  put  together ;  and  I  will  have  you 
to  know,  that  by  making  you  my  confident 
in  my  troubles,  I  do  not  give  you  licence 
to  use  her  name  so  lightly.  I  respect  you 
more  than  I  do  any  man  except.my  father ; 
but  I  will  not  permit  even  you  to  abuse 
Edith  Mayfield  in  my  presence." 

The  satirical  expression  of  the  master's 
face  instantly  vanished,  and,  with  his  kind 
heart  beaming  in  his  eyes,  he  said,  in  his 
most  gentle  tones,  "  If  I  have  offended  you, 
Henry,  I  sincerely  lament  it;  for  God 
knows  I  would  not  designedly  hurt  your 
feelings  for  any  consideration.  Do  you 
not  see  that  I  talk  at  random  1  DO  you 
not  see  that  my  indifference  is  feigned  — 
that  my  mock  appearance  of  unconcern, 
and  my  vain  attempts  to  ridicule  and  make 
myself  merry  at  the  expense  of  the  sex, 
are  like  the  convulsive  laughter  of  a  man 
in  fever!  My  dear  friend.  I  feel  for  you 
more  than  1  care  to  say  ;  there' is  a  rank- 
ling sting  at  my  heart,  which  I  would 
fain  forget,  and  which  your  grief  revives. 
My  humour  is  an  unnatural  excitement; 
you  must  forgive  me,  for  1  have  a  canker 
here." 

W  With  all  my  heart  I  forgiye  you,"  re- 


plied the  judge,  "  and  sincerely  ask  pardon 
myself,  for  I  have  been  too  hasty.  For, 
Heaven's  sake  forget  the  Harshness  of  my 
words  and  manners,  for  1  am  not  myself." 

"  Your  warmth  was  natural  and  excusa- 
ble," replied  the  master,  "  and  it  is  impos- 
sible, for  you  to  be  otherwise  than  sad. 
Your  case  is  a  hard  one,  but  a  remedy  may 
be  found  in  your  own  mind.  It  will  soon 
be  itself  again;  reason  will  soon  triumph 
over  the  passions  of  the  heart,  though  the 
battle  will  be  a  fierce  one,  and  the  victory 
will  cost  the  lives  of  some  of  the  dearest 
hopes  and  sweetest  charities  and  affections 
of  your  nature.  I  leave  with  you  the  map ; 
when  you  are  by  yourself,  look  on  it,  and 
it  will  be  of  service  to  you."    . 

With  this  the  friends'parted  ;  M'Bride  to. 
attend  to  matters  connected  with  his  pro- 
fession, and  Warden  to  seek  out  Uncle 
Corny,  of  whom  he  had  already  resolved 
to  make  a  confident  and  an  agent. 

As  he  approached  the  residence  of  the 
Demijohns,  his  ears  were  saluted  by  the 
sound  of  a  fife  blown  with  lively  animation, 
and  villainous  disregard  of  tune  or  har- 
mony, while  at  intervals  he  heard  a  hoarse 
and  martial  voice  that  seemed  to  be  giving 
commands  to  a  regiment  of  soldiers  on 
parade.  Aware  of  Corny's  fondness  for 
the  art  military,  and  curious  to  know  in 
what  manner  he  was  now  exercising  his 
talents,  he  advanced  to  a  position  whence 
he  could  see,  unobserved,  the  proceedings 
in  the  back  yard.  The  old  lady,  Demi- 
john's mother,  sat  in  her  arm-crrair  in,  the 
doorway,  smoking  a  short-stemmed  pipe, 
and  watching  with  a  complacent  counte- 
nance the  actions  of  her  son.  He,  arrayed 
in  the  small  and  faded  uniform  of  his  father, 
and  with  a  naked  sword  in  his  hand,  was 
drilling  a  squad  of  ragged  negroes  of  all 
ages  and  sizes,  the  most  venerable-looking 
one  of  whom  stood  at  their  head  leaning 
to  his  music,  blowing  with  all  the  force 
of  his  lungs,  and  with  the  most  solemn 
sincerity  of  manner. 

"  Massa  Corny,"  at  length  said  the  musi- 
cian, pausing  in  his  labours,  "  spose  you  let 
me  take  de  fiddle ;  I  can't  blow  any  music 
out  ob  dis  consarn,  for  it  haint  got  none 
in  it." 

"  Fiddles  are  never  used  in  the  army, 
Csesar,"  answered  Demijohn, "  and  it  would 
be  against  all  the  rules  of  war  to  march 
by  them.  Attention,  company  !  Forwards! 
March !     Music  in  front !" 

At  this  instant  the  judge  made  his  ap- 
pearance, and  the  soldiers  would  have  dis- 
persed incontinently  ;  but  their  commander 
was  too  good  an  officer  to  be  taken  by  sur- 
prise. He  halted  his  men,  called  over  their 
names,  and,  regularly  dismissing  them, 
then  for  the  first  time  seemed  to  be  aware 
of  the  presence  of  Warden.  After  some 
brief  conversation  upon  the  subject,  of  war, 
Uncle  Corny's  visiter  took  him  aside,  and 


ALAMA'NCE. 


45 


at  once  unfolded  his  business.  The  soldier 
listened  with  serious  gravity,  and  indicated, 
by  Iiis  manner  and  his  conversation,  that 
be  duly  appreciated  the  momentous  im- 
portance of  the  precious  secret  committed 
#o  his  keeping. 

"  If  I  can  serve  you  in  any  way,"  said  he. 
"you  may  command  me.  I  shall  stand  by 
you  to  the  death." 

"You  can  serve  me,"  replied  Warden, 
"  and  in  this  way.  1  wish  you  to  manage 
to  have  Edith  at  your  house.  Suppose, 
for  instance,  you  give  a  party,  and  invite  all 
the  young  people  of  the  neighbourhood. 
You  can  then  get  an  opportunity  of  con- 
4  iersing  privately  with  her;  and,  if  you  do, 
I  wish  you,  in  a  delicate  manner,  and 
without  appearing  to  be  acting  by  my  au- 
thority, to  ascertain,  if  possible,  why  she 
treats  me  so  rudely.  Finally,  you  must 
give  her  this  poetry;  and,  if  you  cannot 
succeed  in  drawing  out,  indirectly,  the 
cause  of  her  conduct,  you  may  advance 
boldly  to  the  charge — tell  her  I  am  the 
most  miserable  man  on  earth,  that  I  never 
breathed  a  harmful  word  against  her,  and 
that  1  am  completely  confounded  at  her 
conduct.  You  must  take  care  also  to  let 
her  know  that  I  regard  her  name  as  too 
sacred  to  make  a  public  use  of  it,  and  that 
what  you  know  I  told  you  in  strict  confi- 
dence, you  being  a  friend  to  both." 

"  1  understand  you,  Henry,"  answered 
tJncle  Corny,  "and  your  .wishes  shall  be 
strictly  carried  out — "to  be  sure  they  shall. 
And,  to  make  sure  of  her  and  keep  off 
Ross,  I'll  go  for  lier  myself — I  will,  by  Ju- 
.piter — and  wo  to  the  man  that  interferes 
•with  me!  I'll  consult  mother  about  the 
day,  and  send  you  your  invitation  this 
evening.  Won't  you  walk  in  and  take  a! 
glass  of  brandy?  I  feel,  myself,  as  if  1 
•  could  enjoy  one."  • 

"  I  thank  you,"  said  Henry,  "  I  am  in 
haste  and  in  low  spirits,  and  must,  be  gone. 
Let  the  day  be  as  early  as  possible." 

'°t  shall  be,  and  I  know  all  things  will 
come  right.     I'll  conquer  or  die." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

-*.  ;CkARACTER     IN    WHOM     ALL     OUR     READRRS 
WILL   RECOGNIZE   AN  OLD    ACQUAINTANCE. 

In  those  days  there  flourished  at  Ala- 
mance a  gentleman  by  the  name  of  Phile- 
mon Blister,  who,  having  no  business  of 
his  own  to  attend  to,  gave  his  attention  to 
the  affairs  of  the  public.  His  family,  all 
of  whom  were  dead,  had  been  respectable, 
and  he  possessed  a  small  but  comfortable 
estate  ;  but  being  a  heterogeneous  sort  of 
man,  he  failed  to  obtain  what  he  most  de- 
sired, a  wife  ;  and  in  process  of  time  the 
i  pursuit  of  one  became  with  him  a  matter 
of  absorbing  interest  and  his  sole  occupa- 


tion. He  was  one  of  those  men  Who  am 
permitted  to  take  liberties  with  every  one, 
and  whom  every  one  treats  in  the  most 
free  and  familiar  manner,  never  address- 
ing them  in  a  formal  way,  and  always 
calling  them  by  their  Christian  names  in 
an  abbreviated  form.  Thus  Mr.  Philemon. 
Blister  was  universally  called  Phil;  and 
the  name  of  Phil,  and  his  sayings  and  do- 
ings, were  iii  every  body's  mouth.  At  an 
early  age  he  gave  favourable  indications 
'of  genius  for  prying  into  the  secrets  of 
others ;  and  by  the  time  he  was  grown  up 
to  man's  estate  his  capacity  in  this  respect, 
was  so  fully  developed  that  there  was  not, 
at  any  time,  any  thing  said  or  done  iu  any 
corner  of  Alamance  which  Phil  did  not 
immediately  hear  of.  Equally  great  was 
his  ability  for  reporting  what  he  heard,  or, 
rather,  what,  he  did  not  hear;  for  it  was  im- 
possible for  him  to  repeat  a  story  without 
embellishing  it  with  so  many  and  such  ex-' 
traordinary  additions  that  the  original  au- 
thor, hearing  it  from  his  lips,  would  not  have 
recognized  it.  He,  being  a  bachelor,  devo- 
ted himself  particularly  to  the  gallantries 
and  courtships  of  the  community — was  al- 
ways the  first  person  who  knew  of  a  pro- 
jected wedding,  and  was,  for  many  years, 
one  of  the  standing  groomsmen  of  Ala- 
mance. His  means  were  not  extensive  or 
abundant ;  but  with  what  he  had  he  was 
close,  and,  although  universally  regarded 
as  "  a  good-fellow,"  he  had  become  some- 
what selfish.  Indeed,  like  all  men  who 
are  sensible  enough  to  know  they  are  not 
smart,  Phil  was  not  deficient  in  a  sort  of 
cunning ;  and,  looking  on  this  life  as  a  state, 
militant,  and  every  body  as  his  secret  foe, 
he  shielded  himself  with  the  armour  of  de- 
ception. In  fact,  after  much  study,  and  no 
little  experience,  he  at  last  obtained  what 
he  was  wont  to  call  "  the  points  of  this 
world  ;"  in  other  words,  he  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  any  one  could  get  along 
who  could  deceive  all  his  friends  as  to  his 
intentions.  And  thus,  though  he  was  a 
leaky  vessel  for  the  secrets  of  others,  he 
kept  his  own  counsels,  and  never  permit- 
ted even  his  nearest  and  best  friends  to 
know  his  real  views  and  aims  about  any 
thing.  For  instance,  while  with  gentle- 
men, he  was,  in  his  language  about  the  la- 
dies, free,  vulgar,  and  licentious,  in  a  con- 
fidential way,  however;  and  then,  in  the 
same  strict  confidence,  he  would  tell  the 
ladies  of  all  the  offensive  remarks  his 
friends  had  made  about  them.  He  was 
the  sworn  friend  of  every  one,  bound  every 
one  to  secrecy,  and  told  every  one  what 
he  had  heard  every  body  else  say.  Thus, 
while  others  were  exposing  their  secrets, 
and  he  was  briskly  circulating  them  over 
the  community,  his  own  intentions  and 
feelings  were  a  mystery. 

As  before  intimated,  Phil  had  no  partic- 
ular home;  for  his  house,  being  desolate* 


46 


ALAMANCE. 


and  his  kindred,  at  least  all  his  near  kin- 
dred, being  dead,  he  became  a  rover,  and 
as  ten  thousand  reports  travelled  with  liim, 
he  might  aptly  be  compared  to  Rumour, 
with  her  thousand  tongues.  As  he  was 
powerless,  even  when  he  tried  for  good, 
and  omnipotent  when  he  didn't  try  for  mis- 
chief, Henry  Warden  dreaded  him.  That 
young  man  had  seen  Phil  often  whispering 
to  Edith,  and  he  shuddered  at  the  conse- 
quences. It  was  Phil's  habit  to  see  every 
lady  who  had  been  visited  by  a  gentleman,, 
and  tell  her  confidentially  that  it  was  gen- 
erally reported  that  she  was  engaged  to  be 
married.  Hereupon  the  lady,  especially 
if  young  and  timorous,  would  become 
alarmed  and  indignant,  and  would,  the 
next  time  she  saw  the  gentleman  in  ques- 
tion, treat  him  so  cavalierly  that  a  quarrel 
was  inevitable.  To  avoid,  therefoie,  the 
consequences  of  Phil's  unhappy  blunders 
the  judge  was  studiously  reserved  in  his 
presence,  and  hence  Phil  began  to  culti- 
vate Uncle  Corny.  This  last-named,  warn- 
ed by  the  judge,  was  still  more  costive 
than  his  friend,  and  thus,  as  Mr.  Blister 
could  ascertain  from  neither  the  object  of 
the.  approaching  party,  he  scoured  the 
neighbourhood  in  search  of  news.  He  was 
full  of  cant  phrases  and  buffoon  wit,  and 
every  man  he  met,  at  the  time  alluded  to, 
he  would  quiz  with  some  mysterious  ex- 
pression about  the  approaching  entertain- 
ment, and  set  his  curiosity  agog.  Phil 
himself  revealed  nothingdirectly  ;  butthere 
was  a  world  of  unknown  meaning  in  his 
questions,  and  he  could  startle  a  man  even 
with  the  simple  query,  "  Have  you  heard 
the  news'?" 

The  answer  generally  given  was,  "  I  un- 
derstand Uncle  Corny  Demijohn  is  going 
to  give  a  great  party." 

Whereupon  Phil  Blister,  assuming  a 
knowing  and  portentous  look,  would  reply 
that  it  would  be  a  party  which  some  folks 
would  long  remember.  Thus,  one  morn- 
ing, he  met  with  Miss  Whimididdle,  a 
maiden  lady  of  considerable  experience, 
and,  after  the  usual  salutations,  he  asked 
her  if  she  intended  to  honour  the  approach- 
ing party  with  her  presence. 

'•  If  1  were  to  consult  my  own  wishes, 
I  shouM  not  go,"  answered  Miss  Whim- 
ididdle ;  "  for  I  have  no  fondness  for  such 
things.  Father  and  mother,  however,  in- 
sist on  my  attending,  as  a  mark  of  respect. 
to  the  Demijohns,  and  I  suppose  1  will 
have  to  go." 

'•  Of  course,  you  must  go,"  said  Phil ; "  for 
you'll  see  something  you  little  expect." 

"Indeed!  And  what  is  to  happen?" 
asked  Miss  Whimididdle. 

"  I'm  mum,"  replied  Phil  Blister,  "and 
can  only  say  that  1  shouldn't  be  surprised 
if  somebody  is  married  shortly." 

"'Yon  surely  don't  mean  old  Mother 
Demijohn  1" 


"  Not  exactly,  I  should  think." 

"  Then,"  said  Miss  W.,  it  must  be  Uncle 
Corny.  I  have  heard  some  rumours  abuut 
him  and  the  widow  Fuller,  whom,  as  you 
know,  he  has  visited  twice  a  month  for  the 
last  two  years.  Well,  well,  and  Uncle 
Corny  is  to  be  married  at  last !  I  hope 
he'll  be  happy,  though  I  should  not  covet 
the  place  of  his  bride." 

"  Younger  folks  than  Uncle  Corny  some- 
times get  married,"  returned  Phil. 

"And  so  they  do,"  answered  Miss  W. ; 
"  some  folks  that  I  think  had  better  be  at 
school,  or  with  their  mammas,  a  precious 
sight.  It's  shocking  to  think  what  the 
world  is  coming  to,  when  every  little  boy 
and  girl  must  have  a  sweetheart,  and  want 
to  get  married  as  soon  as  they  reach  their 
teens." 

"Do  you  think  Edith  Mayfield  is  old 
enough  to  run  off  to  get  married  V  asked 
Phil. 

"  Edith  Mayfield  want  to  run  off!"  ex- 
claimed Miss  Whimididdle,  "  Edith  May- 
field  want  to  get  married  ! — however,  it's 
her  business,  not  mine.  Who  in  the  world 
is  silly  enough  to  have  such  a  young, 
giggling  tomboy?  It  must  be  Henry 
Warden." 

'•  You  forget  Ross,"  said  Phil. 

"  To  be  sure,  I  forgot  him.  Well,  is  he,, 
in  fact,  going  to  run  away  with  Edith  May- 
field?  I  always  took  hinv  for  a  lunatic. 
Some  people  think  he  is  a  spy  and  a  dan- 
gerous man,  but  1  always  told  them'  he 
was  too  big  a  fool  to  find  the  way  back 
to  where  he  came  from." 

"  I  don't  know  who's  a  fool  and  who 
aint,"  replied  Phil ;  " '  and,  therefore,  I  say 
unto  you,  as  I  say  unto  all,  watch.'  It  may 
be  lioss,  and  it  may  be  Henry  Warden  ;  it 
may  be  Uncle  Corny,  and  it  may  be  old 
Mother  Demijohn.  Mind  you,  I  don't  say 
who  it  is  ;  only  keep  a  sharp  look-out,  and 
you'll  see  fun." 

Hereupon  Phil  Blister  took  leave,  and 
intimated  to  all  whom  he  afterwards  saw 
that,  as  he  had  heard  from  Miss  Whimi- 
diddle, Uncle  Corny  or  his  mother  was  to 
be  married  on  the  day  of  the  anxiously- 
expected  party.  Miss  Whimididdle,  on 
her  part,  met  with  at  least  half  a  dozen 
during  that  day,  to  all  of  whom  she  com- 
municated, as  a  profound  secret,  the  fact 
that  Henry  Warden  or  Ross  was  to  run 
away  with  Edith  Mayfield.  As  Phil  Blis- 
ter had  bound  her  to  secrecy,  she  could  not 
give  her  author;  but  she  related  it  as  cer- 
tain that  Edith  was  to  marry  one  of  the 
two  named,  and  that  against  the  will  of  her 
parents.  Other  gossips  took  up  the  story 
where  Miss  Whimididdle  left  off,  and,  add- 
ing improvements  of  their  own,  the  whole 
plan  of  escape,  in  all  its  minutest  partic- 
ulars, became  known',  and  was  discussed 
at  length  at  Alamance.  The  community 
was  thrown  into  a  feverish  excitement, 


ALAMANCE. 


47 


some  censuring  and  some  defending  Edith  ; 
a  thousand  rumours  got  afloat,  and  all 
these  rumours  travelled  about  until  they 
were  received  as  settled  facts.  These  re- 
ports, finally,  became  so  general,  and  so 
authentic,  and  so  untraceable,  that  Phil 
Blister,  mounting  his  horse,  kept  them  in 
brisk  circulation,  repeating  them  every- 
where as  undoubted  truths,  settled  by 
the  authority  of  various  persons,  They 
reached,  at  last,  the  ears  of  the  Glutsons, 
and  were  by  them  communicated  to  Ross. 
This  mysterious  individual  was  still  hover- 
ing about  Alamance,  making  his  head- 
quarters at  Nathan  Glutson's,  and  visiting 
very  little  except  at  the  house  of  Edith 
Mayfield's  father.  Being  a  suspected  char- 
acter and  but  slightly  acquainted  with  the 
Demijohns,  he  was  not  invited  to  the  en- 
tertainment to  be  shortly  given.  He  knew, 
of  course,  that  he  was  not  going  to  marry 
Edith  ;  bnt  his  ardent  and  jealous  heart  told 
him  that  Henry  Warden  would.  The  more 
he  reflected  on  what  he  heard,  and  on  what 
he  himself  had  recently  seen,  the  more  was 
he  satisfied  that  his  youthful  rival  was 
about  to  carry  off  ihe  prize  for  which  both 
were  eagerly  contending,  and  all  the  fierce 
passions  of  his  turbulent  nature  were  in- 
stantly aroused  to  a  fearful  intensity.  He 
was  a  gentleman  by  birth,  by  education, 
and  association,  and  had  ever  been  taught 
to  prize  his  honour  more  dearly  than  his 
life  ;  but,  then,  he  was  also  a  lover — a  fiery, 
impetuous  lover — and  to  what  follies  and 
meanness  will  not  the  mania  of  love  drive 
its  votaries'?  That's  a  question  gravely 
put  by  the  master;  and,  without  stopping 
to  quote  his  answer,  we  will  simply  add, 
that  Ross  was  not  proof  against  the  pow- 
erful temptation.  He  convinced  himself 
that  a  dire  misfortune  was  about  to  happen 
to  him;  and  when  he  saw,  early  in  the  morn- 
ing of  the  eventful  day  which  was  to  ruin 
him,  Edith  Mayfield  conducted  by  Uncle 
Corny  to  the  latter's  house,  his  wavering 
resolution  was  fixed  at  once.  What  that 
resolution  was,  and  what  were  its  imme- 
diate and  remote  results,  will  in  due  time 
appear. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE    FISH-FRY — "a    KETTLE    OF    FISH." 

"  Fish-fry  is  a  technical  term,  used  in 
the  South  to  designate  a  pleasant  sort  of 
country- party.  A  person,  having  on  his 
premises  a  stream  or  pond  abounding  in 
fish,  invites  his  friends  and  neighbours  to 
an  entertainment,  which  is  given  in  the 
green  woods  and  near  the  water.  A  hand- 
some collation  of  cold  provisions,  and 
sometimes  of  wines  and  liquors  is  brought 
to  the  place  by  the  servan-.s ;  and  here, 
also,  the  fish  are  prepared  and  cooked  im- 


mediately after  they  are  caught.  Thus, 
at  such  parties,  the  amusements  are  va- 
ried, and  partake  of  that  zest  and  fresh- 
ness which  Nature  ever  has  for  her  lovers. 
All  persons,  old  and  young,  freed  from  the 
restraints  and  conventional  forms  impos- 
ed in  parlours  and  saloons,  surrounded  by- 
delightful  scenes,  inhaling  the  fragrance 
of  buds  and  blossoms,  and  listening  to  the, 
songs  of  birds  and  the  hum  of  bees,  enjoy 
themselves  with  a  peculiar  relish ;  and 
with  minds  improved,  hearts  bettered,  and 
health  invigorated,  return  again  to  their 
respective  homes." 

Thus  the  master  writes  of  fish-fries  gen- 
erally ;  and,  after  some  grave  and  mor- 
al reflections,  inspired  by  the  subject,  de- 
scribes, with  great  particularity, the  famous 
one  given  by  his  friend  Cornelius  Demi- 
john, near  the  latter's  mill,  on  the  creek 
of  Alamance.  A  large  number  of  young 
and  unmarried  people  honoured  the  festi- 
val with  their  presence;  and,  as  it  was  a 
balmy  day,  the  ladies,  in  their  Spring  cos- 
tumes, looked  like  personifications  of  pu- 
rity and  simplicity.  The  woods  echoed 
with  the  laughter  of  these  gay  and  inno- 
cent maidens,,  and  for  a  while  there  was 
little  progress  made  in  the  business  of 
catching  fish,  for  all  were  in  a  joyous  hu- 
mour; and  those  arch  anglers,  the  frolic- 
some gir.ls,  were,  without  being  conscious 
of  it,  entangling  each  a  string  of  lovers. 
In  the  language  of  the  master,  "  many  a 
gudgeon  was  hooked  eagerly  snapping  at 
the  deceptive  bait,  and  quietly  suffering 
himself  to  be  drawn  up  and  prepared  for 
the  process  of  being  fried  and  roasted." 
As  the  sun  advanced  up  the  clear  heavens, 
and  his  beams  became  warmer,  the  young 
people  ceased  their  wild  pranks,  and,  pair- 
ing off,  sought,  in  companies*  of  two,  the 
most  shady  nooks  on  the  banks  of  the 
pond,  and  seriously  began  the  business  of 
the  day — to  wit,  making  love,  and  angling 
for  fish.  The  judge,  however,  was  an  ex- 
ception to  this  rule.  He  scarcely  dared 
to  speak  to  or  look  at  Edith  Mayfield, 
who,  in  her  simple  dress,  shone  with  such 
surpassing  beauty  and  sweetness,  that  she 
seemed  a  half-divine  Dryad  of  the  woods, 
in  whom  there  was  so  little  of  the  mortal, 
that  even  the  boldest  gallants  regarded  her 
with  a  timid  and  sacred  reverence.  Henry- 
Warden,  more  than  ever  in  love,  his  fears 
and  despondency  increasing  with  his  pas- 
sion, wandered  about, solitary  and  abstract- 
ed, and  so  absorbed  with  his  thoughts  that 
his  fishing-pole  might  have  been  jerked 
out  of  his  hand  without  his  being  con- 
scious of  the  fact.  Equally  unsuccessful, 
but  for  a  different  reason,  was  Hector 
M'Bride.  Having  attached  himself  to  his 
unlettered  and  taciturn  friend,  Tubroot,  ho 
became  extremely  talkative,  bobbing  his 
line  up  and  down  in  ihe  water  with  such, 
an  incessant  motion,  that  the  most  hungry 


33 


ALAMANCE. 


roach  or  noldest  catfish  would  not  approach 
his  hook.  He  entertained  and  enlighten- 
ed his  silent  and  staring  companion  with 
a  learned  dissertation  on  the  habits  of  fish, 
gave  an  account  of  the  celebrated  supper 
of  Viteilius,  as  related  by  Suetonius,  and 
did  not  forget  his  friend  Walton,  of  whose 
life  and  character  he  spoke  at  length. 
Tubroot  was  prodigiously  astonished  at 
the  extravagance  of  the  man  who  pur- 
chased two  thousand  fish  for  one  enter- 
tainment, and  had  galleys  built  for  the 
purpose  of  conveying  them  all  the  way 
from  the  Straits  of  Gibraltar.  He  was  still 
more  astonished  at  other  stories  of  Roman 
gluttony  and  magnificence :  but  he  held 
his  peace,  like  a  prudent  man,  and  became 
utterly  bewildered  as  the  master  severely 
criticised  the  piscatory  eclogues  of  Sanna- 
zarius,  from  which  he  made  frequent  and 
copious  quotations  in  the  original. 

During  this  time,  Uncle  Corny,  mindful 
of  the  sacred  trust  committed  to  his  care, 
and  forgetful  of  every  thing  else,  wras  re- 
volving in  his  mind  various  plans  for  the 
execution  of  his  commission.  Of  course, 
lie  became  very  silent  and  unusually  grave  : 
and  as  he  attached  himsel£  to  Edith,  and 
csrried  her  to  a  great  distance  from  the 
company,  she  hardly  knew  what  to  think 
of  him.  She  was  aware,  however,  of  his 
eccentric  character,  felt  obliged  tp  him  for 
his  delicate  attentions,  and,  with  the  ex- 
pectation of  some  rare  sport  at  his  ex- 
pense, she  readily  consented  to  go  with 
him.  They  found  at  last  a  cool,  pleasant, 
and  retired  place,  and  there  they  sat  down, 
attracting  the  gaze  of  all  the  company, 
and  causing  many  amusing  remarks  and 
comparisons,  the  most  original  of  which 
-was  that  of  the  master,  who  said  they  re- 
aninded  him  of  a  violet  peeping  up  by  the 
side  of  a  huge  mushroom.  After  they 
had  sat  some  time  in  silence,  Uncle  Corny 
began  to  blow  as  if  each  breath  were  to  be 
his  last,  and  with  eyes  rolling  wildly,  and 
a  husky  voice,  essayed  to  speak. 

u  Miss  Edith,"  said  he. 

"  Uncle  Corny  !"  answered  Edith,  look- 
ing him  straight  in  the  face. 

"  Miss  Edith,"  continued  Corny,  "I'm  a 
poor  diplomatist,  and  therefore  will  come 
to  the  point  at  once.  Why  do  you  hate 
jny  friend  Hem;y  Warden  V 

"  1  don't  hate  him,  Uncle  Corny." 

"  Then  why  do  you  treat  him  so  cruelly  1 
He  is  nearly  distracted ;  but  still  he  adores 
you." 

Edith  blushed  and  hung  her  head,  and 
having  nothing  to  say,  held  her  peace. 

"He  would  give  seventeen  worlds,"  re- 
sumed Corny,  "  to  know  what  you  mean 
by  sending  back  his  letter.  PoonJellow  ! 
Low  happy  he  would  be  if  he  were  only 
liiiowed  to  speak  to  you  as  1  do  V 

"That  he  is  not  allowed  ;o  speak  to 
iy>e-,"  replied  Edith,  "  is  his  own  fault.    He 


has  not  come  near  me  to-day,  and  sesmi 
very  much  disposed  to  cut  my  acquaint* 
ance." 

"  How  can  he  speak  to  you  after  what 
has  happened  ]"  asked  Demijohn.  "Real 
love,  they  say,  makes  people  fearful  and 
suspicious;  and  I  know  that  he  is  afraid 
to  approach  you,  for  he  thinks  it  would  be 
disagreeable  to  you.  A  thousand  stories 
have  been  told  on  him,  every  one  of  which, 
I  say,  on  my  own  responsibility,  is  au 
infernal  lie,  and  the  author  a  dastardly 
scoundrel." 

"  Why,  Uncle  Corny  !" 

"  Excuse  me,  Miss  Edith,  my  blood  is 
up.  Was  there  ever  a  more  gentle,  a 
more  noble-hearted,  brave,  and  intelligent 
youth  than  Henry  'Warden]  His  soul  is 
as  bright  as  the  sun  above  us — his  heart  is 
the  home  of  every  thing  that  is  honoura- 
ble, just,  generous,  and  tender;  and  yet 
these  malignant  tattlers  have  slandered 
him  till  you,  even  you,  who  are  so  much 
like  him,  are  ashamed  to  speak  to  him. 
Nor  would  you  treat  my  friend  so  badly 
if  you  knew  how  unjustly  and  cruelly  you 
are  acting.  Just  think  of  it.  <  here  is  your 
old  playmate,  confident,  and  defender,  your 
best  friend,  your  most  pleasant  compan- 
ion who  would  at  any  moment  be  glad  to 
die  for  you  ;  here  is  this  frank,  manly,  and 
brave 'young  man,  who  is  going  to  the 
wars,  and  who  does  not  dare  to  say  fare- 
well to  you !  Upon  my  soul  1  can  hardly 
keep  from  crying  myself,  and  yet,  though 
he  may  be  slain,  and  will  die  thinking  of 
you  to  the  very  last,  you  cannot  afford  to 
give  him  a  kind  good-by  !" 

"Did  you  say  he  is  going  to  the  wars, 
Uncle  Corny  ?"  asked  Edith,  turning  pale, 
and  plainly  exhibiting  her  emotion. 

"  He  is  :  he  is  going  to  draw  his  sword 
for  his  country  ;  and  though  he  is  but  a 
boy  he  has  a  heart  as  big  as  that  of  Mars.. 
He  will  be  among  the  foremost  in  the  no- 
ble cause ;  he  will,  I  know,  rush  into  the 
thickest  of  the  fight,  and  his  fair  and  youth- 
ful form  will  lie  stiff,  and  cold,  and  man- 
gled on  some  bloody  field.  It  is  what  he 
wants  ;  to  run  a  short  and  bright  career, 
and  die  a  soldier's  death,  where  he  will 
sleep  quietly  with  kindred  spirits,  far  away 
from  that  home  where  his  young  heart  was 
steeped  in  bitterness." 

During  this  speech  Uncle  Corny  was 
himself  too  much  affected  to  notice  the  ac- 
tions of  Edith,  who  was  searching  for  vio- 
lets that,  did  not  exist,  and  who  could  not 
have  distinguished  one  from  a  «uishroom, 
so  blinded  was  she  by  the  burning  U  ars 
that  suffused  her  eyes,  and  fell,  like  liquid 
pearls,  on  the  leaves  around  her. 

Both  were  silent  for  some  minutes,  when 
Edith, aftera  struggle,  asked,  with  a  choked 
and  tremulous  voice,  "  When  is  Mr.  War- 
den going  10  leave  us  IV 
"Very  soon,"  answered  Uncle  Corny, 


ALAMANCE. 


49 


'**  as*  soon  as  he  can  be  allowed  to  hid  you 
farewell.  He  is  afraid  to  attempt  ft  in 
person,  and  so  lias  requested  me  to  say,  as 
his  last  words  to  you,  '  May  God  bless 
you.'  and  to  hand  you  these  verses." 

While,  speaking.  Demijohn  rose  to  his 
feet,  and,  in  the  agitation  and  confusion  of 
the  moment,  stepped  backwards,  and  fell 
with  a  loud  splash  into  the  water.  Th^ 
■waves  swelled  and  rolled,  as  if  a  storm 
were  blowing,  and  the  whole  pond  was 
agitated  from  end  to  end.  The  plunge 
and  the- screams  of  Edith  Mayfield  attract- 
ed the  attention  of  the  company,  who, 
with  more  astonishment,  than  fear,  saw 
Demijohn  midway  between  the  two  shores 
and  bareheaded,  making  a  successful,  but 
awkward  and  energetic  effort  at  swim- 
ming, splashing  the  water  about  him  like 
a  chafed  sea-horse  or  furious  whale.  He 
landed  safely,  having  sustained  no  damage 
but  the  loss  of  his  hat,  and  flooding  the 
land  wherever  he  went,  with  the  moisture 
that  streamed  from  his  clothes.  It  be- 
came necessary  for  him  to  return  to  the 
house;  and,  as  Edith's  dress  was  damp 
from  the  spray  caused  by  Corny's  plunge, 
she  started  with  him.  They  had  walked 
but  a  short  distance,  when  Isaiah  Mayfield, 
accompanied  by  Koss  and  William  Glutson, 
came  dashing  up  at  the  full  speed  of  their 
horses,  old  Mayfield  being  ahead. 

"  God  be  praised,  she's  yet  safe !"  ex- 
claimed the  old  man,  dismounting  and  seiz- 
ing Edith  in  his  arms;  "my  child,  my 
Eddie  is  yet  safe!  Oh,  daughter!  how 
could  you  have  the  heart  to  serve  your 
father  so!  Hut  never  mind,  don't  weep; 
for  I  know  you  are  innocent,  and  were 
misled  by  that  visionary  and  unhappy 
youth.  1  forgive  you,"  continued  he,  cry- 
ing all  the  tune;  "I  forgive  you  before 
you  ask  me.  Come,  darling,  return  again 
to  your  heart- broken  mother." 

During  this  scene  Corny  Demijohn,  bare- 
headed and  in  his  dripping  clothes,  stood 
staring  and  stupefied  with  wonder,  while 
he  excited  equal  astonishment  in  the  minds 
<of  Ross  and  Glutson.  Edith,  covered  with 
confusion  at  the  strange  conduct  of  her 
father,  and  unwilling  to  see  him  expose 
himself  longer  before  his  neighbours,  said 
not  a  word,  and  quietly  and  silently  suf- 
fered her  father  to  carry  her  away.  She 
knew  his  character  too  well  not  to  sus- 
pect that  he  was  labouring  under  some 
absurd  delusion,  but.  she  thought  it  best  not 
to  seek  for  or  to  make  any  explanations 
until  she  was  alone  with  him.  The  old 
gentleman,  overcome  by  his  emotions, 
and  loving  his  daughter  too  well  to  chide 
her  in  public,  also  became  silent,  and  the 
party  on  horseback  thus  started  back  with- 
out caving  another  word. 

Tl'.e  judge  witnessed  the  whole  scene, 
ar.d  tearing  some  mistake,  and  anxious  to 
come  to  a  full  understanding  with  Edith's 
D 


father,  hurried  off  to  overtake  him,  when 
he  was  arrested  by  Demijohn,  who  stood 
in  his  path. 

"  Let  me  go,  Uncle  Corny,"  said  Henry, 
struggling  to  release  himself;  "  let  me  go, 
for  I'm  not  in  a  humour  to  be  trifled  with." 

"  I'll  let  you  go  when  you  are  in  a  con- 
dition to  go,""  quietly  returned  Uncle  Cor- 
ny ;  "  yes,  of  course.  I  will.  For  the  pres- 
ent you  are  my  prisoner." 

"If  you  are  deranged,  or  drunk,"  ex- 
claimed the  judge,  greatly  excited,  "I 
must  tell  you  that  you  must  play  your 
foolish  pranks  on  some  other  person.  Let 
me  loose,  Mr.  Demijohn,  or  by  Heaven  you 
shall  rue  it !" 

At  which  words  he  was  firmly  grappled 
in  the  arms  of  his  keeper,  and  became  as 
helpless  as  a  child.  He  threatened,  abus- 
ed, and  entreated  to  no  purpose,  and 
seemed  at  last  about  to  weep,  when  Corny 
said,  in  his  kindest  tones — 

"  Henry,  my  son,  it's  useless  to  talk  to 
me  now.  I  know  what  is  best  for  you,  and 
I  intend  to  do  it — to  be  sure  I  do — and  there- 
fore I  shall  not  get  angry.  Curse  away  my 
lad,  I'll  not  remember  a  word  you  say." 

"  I  have  not  cursed  you,  sir,"  replied 
Warden,  "  and  you  know  I  never  swear. 
I  care  not  whether  you  get  angry  or  not ; 
I  don't  care  who  may  get  mad,  for  I'm 
done  with  the  world  and  all  that's  in  it. 
As  you  can  have  no  reason  for  holding  me 
longer,  I'll  thank  you,  sir,  to  release  me, 
and  not  keep  me  here  to  be  gazed  at,  and 
laughed  at  by  the  whole  company." 

"  Who's  gazing,  who's  laughing?"  thun- 
dered out  Uncle  Corny;  "let  me  catch  a 
mother's  son  of  them  at  it  and  I'll  instantly 
cut  his  throat — 1  will,  by  Jove  !  I'm  your 
friend,  sir,  'I'll  stand  by  you  to  the  death. 
Heavens  and  earth!  Aint  I,  Cornelius 
Demijohn,  here  at  your  side,  prepared  to 
draw  my  sword  against  the  world,  the  flesh, 
and  the  devil,  in  your  behalf!" 

Demijohn  was  himself,  as  his  speech 
shows,  becoming  excited,  and,  working 
himself  at  last  into  a  perfect  fury,  he  re- 
leased the  judge,  grasped  at  his  side  for  the 
hilt  of  an  imaginary  sword,  and  flourished 
his  arms  about  him,  when  Hector  M'Bride 
and  Ben  Rust  came  up. 

"  Stand  off!"  exclaimed  Uncle  Corny, 
planting  himself  in  a  defensive  position, 
and  raising  his  sword-arm  ;  "  stand  off,  you 
wretches,  or,  by  Jove,  I'll  split  you  to  the 
waist !  Who  dares  approach  here  while  I 
stand  in  the  front  rank?" 

"Angels  and  ministers  of  grace  defend 
us!"  exclaimed  the  master;  "are  we  in 
Bedlam,  or  is  all  the  world  crazy  ?" 

"Let  all  Bedlam  and  all  the  world  dare 
touch  as  much  as  a  hair  of  his  head,"  re- 
plied Corny.  "  if  they  want  to  be  knocked 
into  a  cocked  hat.  I'm  Cornelius  Demi- 
john, sirs,  and  this  is  my  friend;  so  ad- 
proach  not '." 


50 


ALAMANCE. 


"  Uncle  Corny's  a  little  soaky,"  said 
Rust,  "  and  I'll  bet  there's  an  empty  tickler 
in  his  pocket.     Let's  examine." 

This  remark  at  once  threw  a  flood  of 
light  on  the  whole  affair,  and  it  was  soon 
ascertained  that  Demijohn,  to  counteract 
the  effects  of  the  external  application  of 
liquids,  had  copiously  moistened  his  inner 
man  with  a  stronger  fluid.  He  acknowl- 
edged, himself,  that  his  brain  was  a  little 
giddy  from  his  potations  ;  and,  begging  the 
master  to  return  to  his  guests  and  apologize 
for  his  absence,  he,  followed  by  Rust  and 
Warden,  started  again  towards  his  house, 
planting  his  feet  at  every  step  as  if  he 
would  drive  them  into  the  ground.  His 
head  would  reel,  notwithstanding  all  his 
efforts,  and,  taking  hold  of  Rust's  arm,  he 
said,  hiccuping  : 

"  Benjamin,  my  son,  I  do  believe — I'm — 
tipsy.  Yes — to  be  sure — I'm  drunk.  That 
last  drink  did  the  business ;  it  was  too 
much,  sir — too  much.  My  friend,  you 
must  cure  me — you  must,  before  the  old 
lady  sees  me." 

Now,  Ben  was  an  excellent  physician 
in  such  cases,  having  before  attended  Un- 
cle Corny,  when  afflicted  with  his  chronic 
complaint,  administering  to  him  with  skill 
and  success.  He  now  trotted  him  briskly 
through  the  woods,  frequently  tripped  him 
up,  and  so  heated  and  worried  him  with 
hard  exercise,  that,  by  the  time  he  ar- 
rived at  his  mother's,  he  was  tolerably  so- 
ber. Dry  clothes,  and  a  thorough  ablution 
of  his  head  in  cold  spring  water,  brought 
him  entirely  to  himself,  and  prepared  him 
to  sit  with  Rust  in  council  on  the  judge's 
case.  The  latter  was  moody  and  sad,  and 
seemed  little  disposed  to.  speak  of  his  dif- 
ficulties to  any  one.  He  could  not  but  see, 
however,  that  he  was  in  the  presence  of 
faithful  friends  ;  and  his  heart,  gradually 
yielding  to  the  influence  of  kind  words  and 
looks,  at  length  fully  opened  itself,  and  all 
its  secrets  and  its  sorrows  were  exposed. 

"It's  my  decided  opinion,"  said  Uncle 
Corny,  "  that  the  wicked  little  angel  loves 
you— I  believe — I  know  she  does — and  is 
only  trying  the  strength  of  your  attach- 
ment." 

In  proof  of  this  he  recited  what  had 
taken  place  between  himself  and  her  in  the 
morning;  strongly  painted  her  emotion, 
which  he  had  witnessed ;  and  wound  up 
with  an  indirect  compliment  to  his  own  in- 
genuity. 

"  One  would  hardly  think  you  so  cun- 
ning," said  Warden,  becoming  pleased  and 
interested. 

"  Folks  don't  know  me,"  replied  Corny. 
"  They  say  Uncle  Corny's  honest,  and  he's 
brave,  and.  good-natured,  but  he's  not  a 
Solomon.  I  am  not  a  Solomon;  to  be  sure 
I  ani  not.  But  could  he  have  done  better 
than  I  did  ?  "Would  he  have  thought  of 
jumping  into  the  water,  just  as  he  handed 


Edith  the  poetry,  to  prevent  her  from  re- 
turning it  1   She's  got  it  now  in  her  bosom.1' 

"Is  it  possible  you  fell  into  the  water 
by  design  V  asked  the  judge. 

"  Possible,  indeed  !  it's  a  fact — no  doubt 
of  it."  . 

"  Uncle  Corny,"  exclaimed  Henry  War- 
den, rising,  "  here's  my  hand,  and  with  it 
goes  my  heart.  Forgive  me  for  my  harsh- 
ness— forgive  me,  I  entreat  you ;  for  from 
this  day  I  will  look  on  you  as  one  of  my 
best  friends,  and,  what  I  always  thought 
you,  a  noble-hearted  gentleman.  I  was 
deranged,  mad,  and  knew  not  what  I  was 
about."  .  . 

"  I've  forgotten  every  thing  you  said," 
replied  Corny ;  "  on  my  soul  I  have,  and 
whoever  reminds  me  of  it  shall  taste  the 
edge  of  my  sword— he  shall,  by  Jupiter!" 

"  Proximus,  the  next,"  said  Rust,  getting 
on  his  feet ;  "  its  my  turn  now  to  speak,  and 
I'll  jist  give  my  opinion  of  the  whole  mat- 
ter. I'll  do  like  the  parson — take  a  text, 
and  divide  my  discourse  into  several  heads. 
I  would,  then,  my  Christin  friends,"  con- 
tinued he  in  a  drawling  tone,  "  direct  your 
attention  for  a  few  minutes  to  the  first 
verse  of  the  forty-second  chapter  of  the 
Scriptur  of  Common  Sense.  It  is  in  these 
words  :  '  Man  is  man,  and  woman  is  woman.'' 
Now,  by  these  words  we  are  to  under- 
stand two  things :  first,  that  man  aint 
woman ;  and,  secondly,  that  woman  aint 
man.  Man  is  one  kind  of  human,  crittur; 
woman  is  another  kind.  Man  was  born 
with  one  kind  of  natur,  and  woman  with 
another ;  and  whoever  will  jist  recollect 
that  fact  will  know  more  about  females 
than  old  Proximus  has  larned  by  twenty 
years  of  hard  study.  Man  loves  war, 
power,  books,  paintins,  music,  and  natur ; 
woman  likes  show,  dress,  flowers,  and  flir- 
tation. Man  judges  you  by  the  colour  of 
your  principles  and  the  cut  of  your  char- 
acter ;  woman  by  the  colour  of  your  coat 
and  the  cut  of  your  breeches.  Now,  natur 
has  done  all  this,  and  what's  the  use  of 
grumblin  about  it  1  It's  all  a  matter  of 
opinion ;  and,  while  you  are  findin  fault 
with  a  gal  for  bein  deceitful  and  havin  no 
taste  for  books  and  larnin,  haint  she  got 
as  much  right  to  despise  you  because 
your  back  is  crooked  and  your  legs  aint 
straight  1  The  men  look  with  contempt 
on  women  because  they've  got  no  minds 
and  never  read  Shakspur;  the  women 
scorn  the  men  what  haven't  got  whiskers 
and  never  killed  no  one  in  a  duel.  Who's 
right  and  who's  wrong  is  not  the  queston 
now.  Woman,  bein  what  she  is,  must  be 
treated  accordin  to  her  natur,  and  must  be 
expected  to  act  accordin  to  her  natur.  To 
undertake  to  influence  her  in  the  same  way 
that  you  would  influence  a  man  is  as  silly 
as  to  bait  your  fish-hook  with  a  quotation 
from  Shakspur,  or  abatch  of  sentimental  po- 
etry.   You  must  use  the  right  bait  and  what 


ALAMANCE. 


51 


is  that  1  The  judge  has  fished  long  enough 
with  love,  wit,  larnin,  affection,  good- 
ness, and  honour ;  and  if  these  haint  done 
any  good  its  no  use  tryin  them  any  longer. 
Let  him  go  to  the  wars,  kill  a  dozen  or  two 
of  Britishers,  and  come  home  with  fierce 
whiskers  on  his  face,  flamin  buttons  on  his, 
coat,  and  red  blood  on  his  sword,  and, 
Lord  !  how  the  gals  will  shoal  around  him  ! 
Now  for  the  second  grand  division  of  my 
discourse.  I  don't  believe  Edith  is  like 
some  gals ;  I  know  she  aint.  I  will  say 
now  what  I  never  said  before,  but  what 
I've  always  knowed ;  she  loves  Henry 
"Warden,  she  has  loved  him  from  a  child, 
and  she  always  will  love  him  while  she 
lives.  I've  got  two  eyes  and  a  pair  of 
ears,  and  I  know  what  I  know.  As  old 
Proximus  says,  I'm  '  not  a  prophet,  nor  the 
son  of  a  prophet ;'  but  I'll  prophesy  one 
thing :  Edith  will  be  a  woman,  ias  a  woman 
ought  to  be ;  and  in  the  very  toughest 
times,  in  the  very  hardest  trials,  she'll 
shine  out  like  a  rainbow  in  a  storm.  But, 
thirdly  and  lastly,  there's  a  third  kind  of 
folks — the  betweenity  race — who  have  no 
natur  at  all,  and  who  I  call  man-grannies. 
Old  Mayfield  is  one  of  these,  and  it  aint  no 
use  to'talk  to  him  at  all.  He  haint  got  the 
reason  of  man,  nor  the  feelin  of  woman ; 
and  how  are  you  goin  to  touch  him  1  He's 
opposed  to  the  judge,  and  he's  got  a  no- 
tion that  Henry  and  Edith  want  to  marry 
each  other  right  off;  and  you  may  work 
on  him  till  the  day  of  judgment,  and  you'd 
never  beat  that  notion  out  of  his  head.  He 
hates  and  fears  every  body  who  aint  like 
himself.  Because  the  judge  is  open- 
hearted,  smart,  and  brave,  he  looks  on  him 
as  somethin  terrible,  and  thinks  he's  al- 
ways tryin  to  sarcumvent,  undermine,  and 
blow  him  up.  He's  got  these  idees  into 
his  head,  and  the  more  honourable  Henry 
acts,  and  the  more  he  triesto  explain  him- 
self, the  more  skeery  does  old  Squattle- 
brain  git.  He's  in  an  awful  fright  now, 
and  it'll  grow  on  him  till  the  day  of  his 
death.  What's  to  be  done?  Why,  jest 
wait  and  watch,  and  leave  the  rest  to  Prov- 
idence and  to  Edith.  I'll  swear  by  her; 
for  I  believe  in  her,  and  know  she  will 
bring  all  things  to  rights.  Them's  my 
sentiments." 

The  sound  sense  displayed  in  some  of 
these  remarks,  coarse  and  homely  as  they 
were,  struck  both  Corny  and  the  judge, 
though  the  latter  secretly  felt  a  disincli- 
nation "  to  wait."  He,  however,  held  his 
peace,  and  Demijohn  assenting  to  the  ad- 
vice of  Rust,  the  council  adjourned. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

A  LADY  CONFIDENT  AND  A  SENTIMENTAL  LADY. 

Impatience  that  cannot  brook  delay  and 
a  disposition  to  make  confidents,  are  the 


curses  of  lovers.  On  each  of  these  rocks 
many  a  gallant  bark,  freighted  with  tender 
hopes,  has  been  wrecked ;  and  yet  wooers, 
like  statesmen,  however  much  they  may 
study  and  descant  on  the  disastrous  exper- 
iments of  the  past,  will  still,  when  their 
own  time  comes  to  act,  follow  in  the  beaten 
track.  Thus  it  was  with  Henry  Warden. 
The  night  after  his  consultation  with  Rust 
and  Demijohn,  he  spent  in  profound  medita- 
tion, studying  not  what  was  best  for  him,  but 
how  he  should  be  able  immediately  to  ascer- 
tain the  feelings  of  Edith  Mayfield  towards 
him.  He  could  not  wait  for  the  develop- 
ments and  the  just  arbitrament  of  Time, who 
is,  at  last,  the  safest  friend  of  the  persecuted, 
the  great  vindicator  of  Truth.  The  judge, 
notwithstanding  his  late  experience,  still 
secretly  believed  in  the  integrity,  the  kind- 
ness, and  just  discrimination  of  the  sex ; 
and  who  that  has  been  raised  by  a  mother, 
cannot  so  confide  1  He  resolved  to  make 
a  female  confident,  believing  that  such  a 
one  would  be  the  most  cautious  and  safe 
adviser,  and  would  also  have  the  most  fa- 
vourable opportunities  of  sounding  the  sen- 
timents of  Edith.  Now,  there  was  stay- 
ing at  Alamance  a  Miss  Artemesia  Thril- 
lingpipes,  a  northern  lady,  and  sister  to 
the  wife  of  a  Presbyterian  clergyman  who 
was  travelling  through  the  country.  She 
was  at  that  ripe  age  when  the  tender  vir- 
tues of  the  maiden-lady  are  most  conspic- 
uous, and  every  tongue  was  eloquent  in 
praise  of  her  amiable  and  obliging  disposi- 
tion. She  lent  a  patient  and  attentive  ear 
to  the  complaints  of  every  one,  and  every 
sorrowing  heart  found  in  her  an  active 
sympathizer,  and  a  friend  ready  to  do  as 
well  as  to  advise.  She  seemed  to  be  her- 
self so  nicely  strung,  that  the  lightest  touch 
of  sentiment  thrilled  some  chord  in  her 
gentle  breast ;  and  she  was  withal  of  a 
highly  romantic  turn.  She  detested  the 
dull  common-places  of  every-day  life,  was 
fond  of  strange  dilemmas  and  unnatural 
adventures,  and  was  one  of  those  rare 
creatures  who  know  how  to  appreciate 
those  persecuted  beings  whom  the  world 
does  not  understand,  and  who  do  not  un- 
derstand themselves ;  in  a  word,  she  was 
one  of  those  diviner  few  who  are  born  in 
a  world  of  their  own,  and  who  breathe, 
and  move,  and  have  their  being  in  a  sub- 
limated and  rarefied  atmosphere,  where 
grosser  mortals  can  no  more  exist  than  a 
rat  in  an  exhausted  receiver.  She  was 
literary  and  sentimental ;  and  while  the 
gentlemen  all  called  her  interesting,  the 
ladies  generally  agreed  that  she  was  very 
handsome.  True,  her  complexion  was  a 
little  sallow,  and  the  nicely-braided  curls 
which  shaded  it,  and  the  eyes  which  light- 
ed it,  were  of  an  undefinable  colour;  but 
then  her  teeth  were  very  white,  her  waist 
very  slender,  and  her  hand  and  her  foot 
of  the  smallest  possible  dimensions.    Tq 


52 


ALAMANCE. 


the  master  and  the  judge  she  had  been  ex- 
tremely kind  and  complaisant,  the  former 
finding  in  her  a  flattering  and  untiring  lis- 
tener, who  echoed  all  his  sentiments,  and 
the  latter  an  agreeable  companion,  of  a 
tenderly  pensive  disposition,  who  loved  to 
discourse  of  unrequited  love,  mysterious 
communion  of  souls,  flowers,  poetry,  and 
broken  hearts.  To  her,  the  thoughts  of 
Henry  Warden  now  recurred,  and  he  paid 
her  a  visit.  She  received  him  very  gra- 
ciously, and  seeming  to  divine  his  inten- 
tions, wore  a  look  of  sad  and  affectionate 
interest.  He  was  at  first  much  embarrass- 
ed, but  she  kindly  helped  him  on  with  his 
story  until  he  was  able  to  finish  it  himself. 
She  heaved  a  sigh,  and,  after  musing  a 
while,  said,  in  her  softest  tones, 

"  You  have  been,  indeed,  unfortunate, 
but  such  is  the  way  of  the  world.  Such 
people  as  you  are  must  not.  expect  to  be 
understood' by  mankind,  whose  persecu- 
tions are  the  tax  we  have  to  pay  for  those 
peculiar  enjoyments  which  are  all  our 
own." 

'■  Yes  ;  but  Edith  can  understand  me," 
replied  Warden,  '■  if  she  knew  me.  and  this 
is  all  I  ask.     She  must  have  been  misled." 

41  It  is  quite  possible,"  returned  Miss 
Thrillingpipes  ;  for  there  are  gossips  every 
where.  She  is  a  very  pretty  and  amiable 
girl,  and  1  do  not  blame  you,  Mr.  WTarden, 
for  taking  an  interest  in  this  matter.  If  I 
can  serve  you  in  any  way,  I  should  be 
most  happy  to  do  it." 

'.'  What  I  want  you  to  do  is  this,"  said 
the  judge  :  "  I  wish  you  to  see  her  ;  to  tell 
her  my  views,  and  all  that  1  have  written 
and  done,  and  let  her  say  candidly  what 
she  thinks  of  my  conduct.  Ask  her  if  she 
read  my  letters,  and  if  she  did,  what  she 
meant  by  returning  them.  It  is  easy  for 
you,  being  a  lady,  to  ascertain  these  things ; 
and  be  assured,  thaj.  if  you  will  do  me  this 
favour,  you  will  find  in  me  a  true  friend 
while  you  live." 

"  My  own  heart  shall  reward  me,"  an- 
swered Miss  Artemesia;  "and  though  the 
task  is  more  difficult  than  you  imagine,  I 
will  do  my  best  for  you.  I  will  stay  with 
her  to-night,  and  to-morrow  morning,  if 
you  have  leisure  to  call  on  me,  1  will  let 
you  know  the  result." 

"  I  can  always  find  leisure  to  call  on  one 
so  generous,"  exclaimed  the  judge,  "  and 
hope  that  I  will  yet  be  able  to  show  the 
gratitude  of  my  heart.  I  cannot  say  much 
to  my  friends,  but  I  think  and  I  remember.'1'' 

"  You  are  a  flatterer,  Mr.  Warden,"  re- 
plied Miss  Artemesia,  with  a  desperate 
effort  to  muster  a  faint  blush  ;  "  for  1  know 
no  one  can  remember  me.  Indeed,  how 
can  I  interest  a  gentleman  so  intellectual 
as  yourself!" 

"  He  is  not  a  gentleman,  nor  intellec- 
tual," said  the  gallant  judge,  "  who  knows 
you  and  takes  no  interest  in  you.    Ex- 


cuse me  for  my  bluntncss,  for  my  heart  is 
touched." 

"I'll  excuse  you  for  this  time,"  said 
Miss  Artemesia,  laughing;  "but  for  fear 
you  commit,  a  more  unpardonable  sin,  Til 
turn  the  subject." 

Hereupon,  Miss  Artemesia  Thrilling- 
pipes  got  upon  books  and  romances;  and 
after  some  not  very  intelligible  discourse, 
the  judge  took  his  leave,  impressed  with 
the  belief  that.  Miss  Artemesia  had  a  good 
heart  and  an  enquiring  mind*  but  that,  her 
education  had  been  irregular,  and  her  read- 
ing somewhat  desultory.  "It  is  all  the 
fault  of  the  schools,"  thought,  he,  "for  sho 
is  capable- of  the  highest  polish." 


.  CHAPTER  XVI. 

A    SCENE    BEHIND    THE     CURTAIN,    AND    ONE   IN 
FRONT. 

"  And  you  think  him  handsome'?"  asked 
Miss  Artemesia  Thrillingpipes. 

"  I  did  not  say  that,"  answered  Edith, 
blushing;  "I  said  he  was  not  such  as  you 
represented  him,  nor  is  he." 

"  There  is  no  accounting  for  tastes,"  re- 
turned Miss  Arty,  "and,  therefore,  we'll 
not  quarrel  about  the  matter.  Indeed,  ho 
is  hardly  worth  a  quarrel."  Edith  was 
silent,  and  Miss  Artemesia  resumed  :  "■  I 
had  heard  that  he  was  visionary,  but  1  was 
hardly  prepared  to  meet  with  one  so  ab- 
surd and  wild  in  his  notions.  He  is  partic- 
ularly deranged  on  the  subject,  of  love,  and 
I  do  not  blame  you  for  having  forbid  him 
to  speak  to  you." 

''  Who  says  that  I  have  forbid  him  to 
speak  to  me  ?"  asked  Edith,  raising  herself 
in  the  bed;  "it's  astonishing  how  many 
stories  can  get  in  circulation  !" 

"If  I  have  told  a  story,  Miss  Edith,  I 
have  good  authority  for  it.  I  should  sup- 
pose Mr.  Warden  himself  is  good  author- 
ity." 

"  Henry  Warden  never  tells  a  lie,"  re- 
plied Edith. 

"  Then,  I  suppose,  you  don't  believe  he 
said  so  !" 

"  If  he  did  he  was  deceived  by  some 
things  that  have  happened,  for  I  know  he 
would  not  tell  a  story  on  any  one." 

"  Men  are  very  deceiving,"  said  Miss 
Thrillingpipes,  "  and,  for  my  part,  I  don't 
trust  any  of  them." 

"  But  I  do  trust  in  Henry  Warden,"  an- 
swered Edith;  "and  all  the  world  could 
not  make  me  believe  he  is  deceitful,  or 
would  do  a  mean  thing.  As  for  his  being 
absurd  in  his  notions,  people  may  differ-m 
opinion.  -I  have  mine,  and  1  shall  never 
change  it." 

"  Take  care,  Edith,  you  may  rue  the  day 
you  have  been  so  confiding.  You  may  yet 
be  deceived  and  betrayed." 

"  If  I  am  it  will  not  be  by  Mr.  Warden. 


ALA  M  A  N  C  E. 


53 


I  could  trust  my  life  and  my  honour  in  his 
hands,  and  feel  as  safe  as  if  my  own  father 
was  watching  over  me." 

"  Out  at  last !"  exclaimed  Miss  Arteme- 
sia  :  "  I  knew  you  loved  him.  The  beating 
of  this  little  heart  tells  me  so.  Am  I  not 
right,  sweet  child  ]" 

Edith  was  confused  and  disgusted  at  the 
familiarities  of  her  new  friend  ;  but,  shock- 
ed as  her  sensibilities  were,  she  was  too 
amiable  and  too  regardful  of  Miss  Arteme- 
sia's  feelings  to  show  her  displeasure.  She 
therefore  covered  her  head  and  said  noth- 
ing; when  her  companion  proceeded: 

"  Why  do  you  not  make  a  confident  of 
me,  Edith  ]  I  love  you  as  if  you  were  my 
sister,  and  I'm  sure  I'd  keep  your  secret 
•as  sacred  as  if  it  were  my  own.  You 
need  not  fear  me,  for  every  one  trusts  me 
with  their  love  affairs. " 

"  Please  let's  go  to  sleep,"  said  Edith, 
*  for  I'm  very  tired.  Would  you  believe 
it]  I  have  walked  six  miles  to-day,  and 
done  a  great  many  other  things  besides. 
Father  has  a  negro  quarter  about  two  miles 
from  here,  and  I  have  been  there  to  carry 
some  medicines  and  sweet  things  to  Aunt 
Hannah,  who  is  very  old  and  sickly  ;  then 
I  went  to  see  old  Mother  Johnson,  whom 
I  visit  once  a-week,  and  who  calls  me  her 
chatterbox ;  then  I  went  to  see  if  the 
Causeys,  who  are  very  poor,  needed  any 
thing,  and  from  there  I  came  home.  Six 
miles  did  I  say]  It's  more  than  that,  for 
it's  two  to  father's  quarter,  two  from  there 
to  Mother  Johnson's " 

"Edith,"  said  Miss  Thrillingpipes, inter- 
rupting her  calculation,  "nevermind  about 
the  number  of  miles.  I  have  a  secret  of 
great  importance  to  communicate  to  you, 
and  it  deeply  concerns  you  as  well  as  me. 
Will  you  swear  to  me  never  to  tell  to  any 
one  what  I  am  going  to  relate  to  you]" 

"1  would  not.  swear  to  save  my  life," 
answered  Edith  ;  "  but  I'll  promise." 

"  Will  you  also  be  as  candid  with  me  as 
I  am  with  you  ]  We  are  both  interested 
in  this  matter." 

"  I  will  not  tell  you  a  story,"  said  Edith. 

"You  must  know,  then,"  resumed  Miss 
Artemesia,  "that  I  had  good  reasons  for 
speaking  to  you  as  I  have  about  Henry 
Warden.  Pie  has  actually  had  the  impu- 
dence to  make  love  to  me— lie  still,  my 
dear,  and  hear  me  out.  He  has  made  love 
to  me— don't  be  so  fidgety — and  has  tried  to 
make  me  believe  that  he  never  addressed 
you,  and  never  loved  you— .I'll  get  up  if 
you  can't  be  more  quiet.  He  said  it  was 
all  a  story  about  his  being  fond  of  you  : 
that  you  and  he  had  been  friendly  and  inti- 
mate, and  that  all  at  once  you  got  mad 
at  him,  abused  and  insulted  him,  and 
tried  to  show  your  spite  in  various  ways. 
He  acknowledged  that  he  had  written  to 
you,  but  he  declared  most  solemnly  that 
lie  md  it  only  because  he  respected  your 


father,  and  did  not  wish  to  be  at  enmity 
with  the  daughter  of  a  man  he  esteemed  so 
much.  I  did  not  believe  him,  but  he  was 
so  earnest  that  1  thought  I  would  consult 
you  before  I  gave  him  an  answer.  He  is 
too  much  of  a  boy  for  me,  any  how,  but  I 
thought  I  would  find  him  out  before  Idis- 
carded  him,  and  give  him  such  an  answer 
as  he  deserves.  Are  you  asleep]  Edith, 
child,  what  ails  you  ]  Can't  you  speak  to 
me  ]" 

"  I  don't  want,  to  talk,"  answered  Edith, 
with  a  voice  that  sounded  asjf  it  were  in 
fact  difficult  for  her  to  articulate  a  word. 

"  My  dear,  sweet  child,"  said  Miss  Arty, 
"  I  am  almost  sorry  I  told  you  of  Henry 
Warden's  duplicity;  but  it.  is  better  for 
you  to  hear  of  it  now  than  hereafter. 
What,  a  base  heart  he  must  have  so  to  de- 
ceive an  innocent  and  confiding  girl ;  and 
me,  yes,  me  too,  be  has  tried  to  injure  !  But 
it's  not  too  late  to  punish  him,  and  we  will 
do  it.  I  feel  exceedingly  indignant  at  his 
attempted  tricks,  for  flow  I  know  that  he 
has  been  tampering  with  you,  and  told  me 
a  falsehood.  Come,  child,  don't  weep  so  ; 
why,  you  sob  as  if  your  heart  were  break- 
ing. Dry  your  tears,  and  let  us  consult 
how  we  shall  take  revenge." 

"  He  hasn't  injured  me,"  replied  Edith 
Mayfield,  sobbing  convulsively ;  "  and,  if  he 
had,  I  don't  want  to  hurt  him.  It's  all  my 
fault,  and  God  knows  I  am  paying  dearly 
for  it.     Please  don't  talk  to  me  any  more." 

Miss  Artemesia  slept  soundly, and  dream- 
ed sweetly  that  night ;  but  her  young  com- 
panion did  not  close  her  eyes ;  and  never 
did  a  fevered  patient  look  more  impatiently 
for  the  dawn. 

At  early  light  the  latter  was  up  ;  and, 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she  surveyed 
with  some  attention  the  reflection  of  her 
charms  in  the  mirror.  She  did  not  believe 
she  was  very  handsome,  but  she  could  not 
but  contrast  the  fresh  roses  of  her  cheeks, 
the  starry  lustre  of  her  eyes,  and  the  deli- 
cate symmetry  of  her  form  with  the  angu- 
lar person,  the  dry  and  yellow  skin,  and 
the  frightful  looks  of  her  who  was  just 
rising  from  her  couch.  They  say,  thought 
Edith,  that  Henry  is  a  visionary,  and  sees 
strange  things  that  other  folks  cannot  see ; 
it  must  be  so  if  he  loves  that  horrid  wom- 
an. He  can't  love  her;  he  don't  love  her; 
and  therefore  she  must  have  told  me  a  lie. 
But  would  a  young  lady  commit  such  a 
sin]  When  she  asked  herself  this  ques- 
tion she  looked  again  at  her  late  bed-mate, 
and  she  became  satisfied  that  Miss  Arte- 
mesia would  be  more  likely  to  tell  a  lie 
than  Henry  Warden.  Nevertheless,  she 
was  still  troubled  with  anxious  doubts,  and 
as  soon  as  her  visiter  left,  she  hurried  to 
her  father's  quarter  to  see  the-faithful  old 
Hannah. 

On  the  same  morning,  Henry  Warden, 
according  to  promise,  called  on  Miss  Arte- 


54 


ALAMANCE. 


mesia  Thrillingpipes,  and  was  welcomed 
in  such  a  benignant  manner  that  he  almost 
believed  he  would  hear  favourable  news. 

"  Tell  me  at  once,  Miss  Arty,"  said  he  ; 
"  for  I  can  talk  about  nothing  else  till  I 
know  t^/e  success  of  your  errand." 

"  Edith  is  very  pretty,"  answered  Miss 
Thrillingpipes. ' 

"  She's  beautiful,"  rejoined  the  judge 
with  animation  ;  "  and  that  is  not  all,  she's 
as  good  as  she's  beautiful."  . 

"  Good,"  replied  Miss  Arty,  "  is  a  word 
used  with  various  meanings.  That  Edith 
is  a  good  sort  of  a  girl,  in  the  common 
sense  of  the  word,  I  have  no  doubt ;  for 
she  seems  amiable  enough.  It  is  not, 
however,  for  such  as  you  to  call  her  good, 
Mr.  Warden." 

"  What  do  you  mean  V  asked  the  judge  ; 
"  I  don't  understand  you." 

"  I  mean  that  no  one  is  good  who  can- 
not appreciate  a  gentleman  like  you.  Poor 
Edith  is  a  giddy  young  girl,  with  a  head 
filled  with  novelties?  She  thinks  only  of 
beaux,  dresses,  the  latest  fashions,  the 
latest  gossip,  and  all  such  trifles.  I  could 
make  nothing  out  of  her." 

"  That  was  because  you  were  somewhat 
of  a  stranger  to  her,"  said  Henry  WTarden, 
"  and  she  was  afraid  to  confide  in  3'ou. 
When  you  know  her  better,  you  will  find 
her  totally  different  from  what  you  now 
think  her." 

"  Perhaps  I  may,"  returned  Miss  Arty  ; 
"but  I  flatter  myself  I  am  a  pretty  good 
judge  of  character.  I  can  tell  from  the 
bud  what  the  flower  will  be." 

"What  did  she  say  about  mel"  asked 
Warden :  "  Why  did  she  return  my  let- 
ters 1     What  does  she  think  of  me  ?" 

"  All  I  could  get  out  of  her,"  answered 
Miss  Thrillingpipes,  "was  that  she  hoped 
Mr.  Warden  would  pester  her  no  more. 
Those  were  her  very  words.  She  said 
she  believed  you  were  half-cracked,  and 
made  herself  merry  over  some  of  the  most 
beautiful  passages  in  your  letters.  I  am 
astonished  that  a  gentleman  of  your  sa- 
gacity should  have  been  so  deceived  in 
her.  Still,  when  I  get  better  acquainted, 
I  may  find  her  different." 

"  She  surely  didn't  repeat  any  passages 
from  my  letters,  and  laugh  at  them,  did 
she?" 

"  I  don't  think  she  recollected  the  words ; 
it  was  only  the  sentiment  she  ridiculed." 

"  Never,  never  shall  I  like  woman  again !" 
exclaimed  Warden,  passionately.  "  Hence- 
forth I  am  done  with  the  sex  forever  !" 

"  Shame,  shame  on  you,  Mr.  Warden, 
for  permitting  the  silly  fancies  of  one  giddy 
girl  to  make  you  so  ungallant.  All  ladies 
are  not  alike ;  for  I  know  there  are  some 
who  can  appreciate  the  tender  sensibility 
of  a  heart  like  yours." 

And  here  Miss  Artemesia  Thrillingpipes 
put  on  her   most   intellectually  pensive 


looks,  while  her  eyes  gleamed  with  im- 
mortal and  inexpressible  tenderness. 

"  If  Edith  Mayfield  is  what  you  say  she 
is,  I  care  not  what  the  others  are,"  said 
the  judge  ;  "  and -never  shall  care  to  know. 
I  had  rather  believe  she  is  an  angel  than 
to  know  others  really  are." 

"  I  forgive  you  for  the  left-handed  com- 
pliment," replied  Miss  Artemesia,  serious- 
ly ;  "  for  I  know  you  will  some  day  find 
out  who  can  and  does  understand  you." 

"  I  know  now  that  you  are  my  friend," 
replied  Henry,  rising  and  holding  out  his 
hand ;  "  and  cold  will  be  my  heart  when  I 
forget  your  kindness.     Farewell !" 

Miss  Thrillingpipes  softly  pressed  his 
hand,  and  gave  him  a  look  whose  fright- 
ful pathos  would  have  deranged  his  deli- 
cate nerves  had  he  not  been  in  a  condition 
to  notice  nothing.  On  the  road  he  over- 
took old  Hannah,  who  was  hobbling  to- 
wards his  father's,  and  who  handed  him  a 
sealed  paper.  He  opened  it,  and  found 
only  his  farewell  verses  ;  and  in  regard  to 
the  return  of  which  Hannah  could  make 
no  explanations,  except  that  Miss  Eddie 
told  her  to  give  the  paper  to  Master  Henry. 

For  once  in  his  life  the  judge  made  a 
safe  confident.  Struck  with  the  honest 
and  intelligent  face  of  the  old  negress,  he 
explained  to  her  the  character  and  object 
of  the  verses,  told  her  of  the  mission  of 
Miss  Artemesia  Thrillingpipes,  and  of  its 
result,  and  declared  that  every  effort  he 
made  to  find  out  the  sentiments  of  Edith 
only  involved  him  in  deeper  mystery.  He 
had  hopes  of  gleaning  something  from 
Hannah  ;  but  the  slave,  from  ignorance  or 
fidelity,  could  give  him  no  satisfactory  in- 
formation, and  he  returned  home  to  pass  a 
night  as  wretched  as  the  last  one  had  been 
to  Edith. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

"  I'd  rather  meet 
A  witch  far  north  than  a  fine  fool  in  love." 
Thos.  Middleton. 

"  Phil  Blister,  also,  to  his  great  joy, 
found  a  sincere  friend  in  Miss  Artemesia 
Thrillingpipes.  The  truth  is,  things  had 
come  to  such  a  pass  with  Phil,  and  his 
matrimonial  prospects  were  so  dull,  that  the 
main  question  with  him  was  not  '  whom 
shall  I  marry1?'  but  'whom  can  I  get?' 
Such  a  character  (I  mean  the  wife-hunter) 
is  of  all  others  the  most  disagreeable  to 
me,  excepting  only  the  woman  who  is 
rabid  for  a  husband." 

These  remarks  are  taken  from  the  mas- 
ter's notes,  and  are  prefatory  to  some  in- 
teresting incidents  connected  with  the  sub- 
jects of  love  and  romance.  That  devotee 
of  both, Miss  ArtemesiaThrillingpipes,  won 
daily  on  the  confidence  of  Henry  Warden, 
whom  she  fed  with  vain  hopes  of  hearing 
something  definite  from  Edith  Mayfield. 


ALAMANCE. 


55 


Now,  Phil  Blister  noticed  the  frequent 
visits  of  the  judge,  and,  inflamed  with  jeal- 
ousy, and  satisfied  that  the  lady  of  his 
heart  was  an  object  of  interest  to  every 
one,  he  briskly  pushed  on  his  suit.  Miss 
Artemesia,  believing  that  she  had  three 
strings  to  her  bow,  and  having  mentally 
arranged  her  suitors  into  a  sort  of  sliding- 
scale,  at  the  top  of  which  was  the  judge, 
and  at  the  bottom  Phil  Blister, , was  not  in 
a  hurry  to  make  up  her  mind  in  regard  to 
the  latter's  proposals.  Thus  was  Phil  in 
great  mental  agony  for  several  weeks,  and, 
putting  all  his  wits  to  work,  and  riding  day 
and  night,  he  fairly  deluged  the  neighbour- 
hood with  lies.  He  gave  no  credit  to  the 
solemn  asseverations  of  the  master  and 
the  judge,  that  they  had  no  designs  on  the 
susceptible  heart  of  Miss  Artemesia,  and 
even  thought  Uncle  Corny  was  also  smit- 
ten. So  convinced  was  he  that  his  mis- 
tress was  a  universal  belle,  reigning  in  the 
hearts  of  all,  that  there  is  no  telling  what 
might  have  happened  had  not  a  fortunate 
accident  intervened.  Miss  Artemesia's 
brother  found  it  necessary,  in  the  prosecu- 
tion of  the  business  of  his  mission,  to  pay 
a  short  visit  to  Virginia,  and  his  wife  and 
her  sister  accompanied  him  thither.  The 
last-named,  before  she  left,  promised  to 
correspond  with  the  judge,  and  was  to 
write  the  first  letter  in  order  to  let  him 
know  where  to  direct  his.  She  was  not 
long  in  redeeming  her  promise  ;  and  as  the 
letter  was  followed  by  important  conse- 
quences, and  is  in  itself  a  curiosity,  as  a 
specimen  of  the  epistolary  abilities  of  a 
literary  and  sentimental  lady,  we  give  it 
entire,  leaving  out  only  the  date  and  the 
name  of  the  place  where  it  was  composed. 
The  master  preserved  it  with  great  care, 
as  a  most  precious  document ;  and  as  we 
therefore  copy  from  the  original,  which 
can  be  inspected  by  any  one,  we  hope  we 
will  not  be  accused  of  having  added  to  or 
taken  from  this  rare  production. 

Miss  Artemesia  to  Henry  Warden. 

"  I  hope  you  will  not  think,  Mr.  Warden,  that, 
because  1  have  not  written  sooner,  I  have  for- 
gotten you  or  the  dear  scenes  we  have  passed 
together  at  Alamance.  Oh,  no  !  I  never  can 
forget  you,  and  have  not  ceased  to  think  of  you 
every  moment  since  we  parted  ;  hut  the  truth 
is,  I  have  been  much  pestered  by  the  calls  of 
gentlemen,  and  by  invitations  to  parties.  I  am 
compelled,  out  of  politeness,  to  go  to  these  places, 
though  I  never  had  much  fancy  for  them,  being 
always  of  a  retiring  disposition.  I  often  think 
when  the  silly  dandies  are  crowding  round  me, 
and  teasing  me  with  their  disgusting  flattery, 
of  the  lines  of  my  favourite  poet  Crusoe  : 
'  O  for  a  lodge  in  some  vast  wilderness, 
Some  boundless  ambiguity  of  shade  !' 

And  I  may  add — 

Where  ladies  are  not  fond  of  dress, 
And  no  compliments  are  paid. 

Thus,  you  will  perceive,  I  am  a  sort  of  poetess 
myself,  though  it  is  very  hard  for  me  to  write 


my  bounding  and  cerulean  thoughts.  I  often 
feel  poetical  indeed,  especially  in  the  dim  si- 
lence of  the  night,  when  all  are  locked  in  the 
arms  of  Orpheus,  and  my  eyes  only  are  watch- 
ing the  desultory  stars  in  the  void  expanse 
above;  but  I  never  yet  could  acquire  any  do- 
cility for  making  rhymes.  And,  by  the  way, 
speaking  of  poetry,  reminds  me  of  a  scene  in 
one  of  Shakspeare's  plays — I  think  it  is  in  the 
Prince  of  Hamlet, where  Othello  says — 

'I  had  rather  be  a  cat,  and  cry  mew,  than  a  poet.' 
Now,  will  you  not  agree  with  me  that  these 
were  not  the  author's  own  sentiments  ;  for  was 
he  not  agreat  and  extraneous  poet  himself? 
And  were  not  Sallust,  Cato,  and  Mark  Anthony 
poets  among  the  ancients  1  And  were  not  Mil- 
ton, Plutarch,  Hudibras,  and  Cromwell  poets 
among  the  moderns'!  And  yet  who  was  greater 
than  these?  I  am  a  lover  of  poets  and  poetry, 
and  I  think  it  the  most  pleasant  reading  in  the 
world.  With  what  pleasure  have  I  devoured ' 
'  the  Crusades,'  by  Julius  Caesar,  and  the  ro- 
mantic wars  between  the  Dutch  and  Trojans  in 
the  fifteenth  century  !  How  have  I  melted  at 
the  tale  of  the  forlorn  Dido,  whose  heart  was 
broken  by  Henry  the  Eighth  on  his  return  from 
the  Holy  Land,  and  kindled  at  the  strains  of  the 
immortal  Avon  !  I  love,  too,  to  read  of  Richard 
the  Black  Prince,  who  drove  the  Moors  out  of 
Africa.  But  my  favourite  hero  is  Falstaff,  who 
overthrew  the  Pyramids  in  a  pitched  battle,  and 
routed  the  Troubadours  on  the  plains  of  Sala- 
manca, where  he  left  seventy-five  thousand 
dead  Saracens  on  the  field.  O  that  I  had  some 
one  to  talk  to  about  these  things  ! — some  kin- 
dred spirit,  like  your  own,  to  laugh  with  me 
over  the  humour  of  the  immortal  Coke,  and 
weep  at  the  mournful  fall  of  the  gallant  Goths 
in  Constantinople  ! — to  tread  the  flowery  fields 
of  Bacon's  fancy,  and  wander,  in  imagination, 
through  the  now  deserted  streets  of  Carthage, 
where  Virgil's  song  is  heard  no  more,  and 
merry  ^Esop's  tavern  lies  in  ruins  !  But  I  am 
out  of  place  ;  I  am  among  a  people  who  do  not 
understand  me,  and  between  whom  and  myself 
there  is  no  communion  of  soul.  To  show  you 
what  sort  of  gentlemen  we  have,  I  will  describe 
to  you  the  belles  whom  they  most  admire.  Miss 
Squizzleborough  is  thought  to  sing  divinely, 
and  yet  I  had  as  soon  hear  a  pig  in  the  last  ag- 
onies of  death,  or  the  screaming  of  a  hundred 
and  fifty  cats  all  at  once.  Miss  Saddletree  is 
admired  for  her  smartness,  and,  would  you  be- 
lieve me,  she  cannot  tell  whether  Alexander  ¥ 
the  Great  or  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  gained 
the  great  battle  of  Charlemagne,  and  did  not 
know,  until  I  informed  her,  that  the  Prince  of 
Wales  is  the  Governor  of  Gibraltar,  and  the 
chancellor  of  the  woolsack  the  chief  of  the 
Highland  Clans.  When  I  told  her  that  the  wild 
Irish  were  caught  in  Patagonia,  and  that  the 
pensioned  poets  of  England  generally  resided 
on  the  Peak  of  Tenerifle,  she  seemed  as  much, 
astonished  as  if  she  had  heard  some  new  and 
startling  intelligence.  The  other  two  fashion- 
able toasts,  Miss  Pendergrass  and  Miss  Riggles, 
are  famous — the  one  for  her  beauty,  and  the 
other  for  her  dancing.  The  beautiful  lady 
has  carroty  hair,  eyes  more  like  a  New-Eng- 
land fog  than  any  thing  else  I  can  think  of  just 
now,  and  is  good  for  nothing  but  to  ogle  and 
show  her  teeth ;  while  the  celebrated  dancer 


56 


ALAMANCE. 


bounces  through  the  room  like  a  showman  on 
a  spring-board.  I  am  not  envious;  gracious 
knows,  I  have  attentions  enough  paid  to  me, 
without  wishing  any  more  from  the  rustic  gen- 
tlemen of  the  place,  not  one  of  whom  lias  ever 
read  Pluto, or  resembles  Jupiter,  Syphax.orDon 
Quixote,  or  any  of  the  other  heroes  of  Shak- 
speare's  tragedies.  When  I  think,  my  friend, 
how  few  are  like  you — when  I  reflect,  as  I  often 
do,  on  my  lonely  and  desolated  situation,  I  feel 
half  disposed  to  turn  Pope,  and  retire  into  a 
monastery  where  I  can  spend  rny  life  in  med- 
itation, and  in  the  perusal  of  such  romances  as 
the  sweet  and  touching  loves  of  Sancho  Panza 
and  Rosa  Nautz.  If  I  do,  I  shall  still  remem- 
ber you,  and  shall  constantly  pray  that  you  may 
find  some  one  who  can  depreciate  as  she  ought 
the  sensibility  of  a  heart  like  yours,  and  who 
will  regard  you  with  that  fraternal  composure 
which  shall  forever  bOrn  in  my  kindred  breast 
for  you.  Don't  forget  to  write  soon,  and  at 
length.  I  shall  devour  your  letter,  and  hope 
you  will  dila>e  at  large,  with  that  kindling  so- 
phistry-with  which  you  are  so  eloquent,  and 
which  I  so  much  delight  to  hear.  Brother  and 
sister  send  their  love,  and  I  my  respects  and 
my  sincere  wishes  for  your  utter  and  total  fe- 
licity here  and  hereafter.     Adieu  ! 

"  Artemesie. 
"P.  S. — Just  before  I  left  Alamance,  I  heard 
Edith  speak  very  lightly  of  you.  I  hope  you 
have  forgotten  your  unhappy  passion  for  that 
giddy  girl.  You  will  never  be  yourself  uniil 
you  tear  her  from  your  heart,  of  which  she  is  so 
totally  unworthy." 

The  master,  to  whom  Henry  Warden 
exhibited  this  extraordinary  epistle,  pe- 
rused it  over  and  over  again,  first  silently 
and  then  aloud,  falling,  at  each  time,  into 
convulsions  of  laughter.  He  finally  read 
it  sentence  by  sentence,  wjth  a  running 
and  extempore  commentary  on  each,  and 
for  an  hour  at  least  he  and  the  judge  were 
so  merry  that  they  forgot  all  their  earthly 
cares  and  sorrows.  Many  of  the  remarks 
of  M'Bride  are  preserved  in  his  notes;  but 
as  they  are  extremely  caustic  and  unmer- 
cifully humorous,  and  as  some  of  the  rela- 
tives and  friends  of  Miss  Thrillingpipes  are 
still  in  existence,  and  may  read  these  pages, 
we  feel  disposed  to  save  their  feelings  even 
by  withholding  what  might  be  highly  ac- 
ceptable to  others.  'The  two  friends  un- 
derstood at  once  the  character  and  designs 
of  the  writer ;  and  the  master,  for  the  sake 
of  fun,  was  for  keeping  up  the  currespoiwl- 
ence.  The  judge,  however,  was  already 
sick  of  the  game,  and  immediately  com- 
posed the  following  answer: 

"Alamance,  17 — 

"Mr.  Henry  Warden  offers  his  grateful  ac- 
knowledgments to  Miss  Thrillingpipes  for  the 
high  opinion  she  has  expressed  of  him  in  her 

letter  of  the ,  and  desires,  by  this  note,  to 

close  the  correspondence.  He  is  of  opinion 
that  false  impressions  might  be  produced  by 
farther  intimacy,  and  as  Mr.  Philemon  Blister 
is  already  jealous  of  him,  he  »va:'.-s  himself  of 
the  occasion  to  say  that  he  is  not  and  expects 


not  to  be  that  gentleman's  rival.  Mr.  W.  will, 
remember  Miss  Artemesia  for  the  kind  and 
faithful  manner  in  which  she  complied  wiih  his 
request  to  bring  about  a  reconciliation  between 
himself  and  his  friend  Miss  E.  H.  W." 

Hector  M'Bride  was  perfectly  enraptured 
with  this  note,  and  immediately  carried  it 
and  Miss  Artemesia's  to  Editli  May-field,  to 
whom  he  handed  them  to  read,  and  who, 
after  their  perusal  felt  her  innocent  heart 
fairly  dance  within  her.  To  prevent,  her 
father  from  observing  her  emotion,  she 
hastened  to  her  own  chamber,  and  there, 
falling  on  her  knees,  poured  out  the  grateful 
offerings  of  her  sinless  breast  to  Heaven; 
and  then,  throwing  herself  ou  her  bed, 
wept  for  hours  in  an  ecstasy  of  pleasure. 
The  master  returned  with  information  of 
what  he  had  done,  and  of  Edith's  abrupt 
departure  from  the  room,  and  was  tolera- 
bly certain  that  he  saw  several  tears  drop 
from  her  eyes  as  site  ran.  Warden's  note 
was  duly  despatched,  and  as  we  are  now 
on  the  subject,  we  will  extract  from  the  , 
master's  notes  the  conclusion  of  Phil  Blis- 
ter's history. 

"I  may  as  well,"  writes  he,  "make  a 
finish  of  these  characters  at  once,  without 
awaiting  the  order  of  events  or  stopping 
now  to  record  previous  and  more  import- 
ant matters.  Philemon  Blister  and  Henry 
Warden's  note  reached  Miss  Thrillingpipes 
about  the  same  time  ;  and  if  the  coldness  of 
the  latter  threw  her  into  convulsions  of 
rage,  the  warmth  of  the  former  acted  as 
an  extremely  soothing  balm  to  her  wounded 
heart.  Although  1  am  confident  that  Phil 
never  read  a  book  through  in  his  life,  and 
had  about  as  intelligible  an  idea  of  senti- 
ment as  a  man  born  blind  has  of  colours, 
he  found  little  difficulty  in  engaging  him- 
self to  the  romantic  and  accomplished  Ar- 
temesia Thrillingpipes.  She  now,  no  doubt 
to  enhance  her  value  in  her  lover's  eyes, 
informed  him  that  Henry  Warden  and  my- 
self had  been  at. her  feet,  and  that  Uncle 
Corny  had  long  been  desirous  of  offering 
himself  as  a  candidate  for  her  hand,  but  she 
never  could  endure  his  presence.  Twice, 
she  said,  she  had  rejected  my  proposals, 
and  thrice  those  of  the  judge,  and  intimated, 
in  terms  by  no  means  ambiguous,  that  she 
had  fled  to  Virginia  to  get  rid  of  our  im- 
portunities. Was  not  Phil  happy  at  this 
information'?  Did  he  not  feel  like  Tain 
O'Shanter, 

'  O'er  all  the  ills  of  life  victorious  ?' 

As  my  friend,  Cornelius  Demijohn  would 
say,  to  be  sure  he  did.  He  forthwith  h;:d 
the  blooming  and  blushing  Thrillingpipes 
united  indissolubly  to  himself,  he  and  his 
friends  regarding  the  achievement  as  hav- 
ing no  parallel  except  the  abduction  of 
Helen  and  the  fall  of  Troy,  since  the  gen- 
eral deluge.  His  nuptials  were  celebrated 
with  great  pomp  and  rejoicings  at  Aia- 


ALAMANCE. 


57 


Tnnnce,  and  indeed  the  whole  community 
felt  relieved  at  his  marriage.  As  for  Phil 
himself,  satisfied  that  he  had  done  what 
■was  beyond  the  powers' of  any  other  mor- 
tal man.  he  shed  his  buffoon  character, 
strode  about  with  a  consequential  air,  and 
became  a  man  'of  settled  visage  and  de- 
liberate speech.,'  His  thrice  happy  bride 
seemed  to  pily  (lie  bachelor  condition  of 
the  judge  and  myself,  rallied  us  with  play- 
ful spite  on  our' inability  to  get  us  wives, 
and  exhorted  us  to  keep  trying,  as  no  doubt 
we  might  yet  find  some  one  who  would 
have  us.  Thus  have  1  followed  the  for- 
tunes of  Philemon  Blister  and  Miss  Arte- 
mesia  Thrillingpipes  to  the  beginning  of 
their  matrimonial  career,  and  here  1  take 
leave  of  them  forever.  It  is  usual,  in 
novels,  tales,  and  histories,  to  conduct  the 
characters  to  their  exit  Irom  the  world, 
and  there  bid  them  adieu.  I  have  done 
more  than  this  towards  Phil  and  his  wife  ; 
I  have  recorded  their  lives  up  to  what  is 
called  in  law  the  civil  death  of  the  female, 
and  have  dared  to  go  still  farther,  and  see 
them  each  landed  in  what  proved  to  be  the 
worst  of  purgatories  to  both,  the  society 
of  each  other." 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE    EXHIBITION. 

Most  of  the  incidents  recorded  in  the 
last  few  chapters  occurred  within  a  short 
space  of  lime.  They  happened  without 
impeding  the  regular  course  of  things  at 
Alamance,  where  the  master  still  busied- 
himself  with  the  affairs  of  his  little  king- 
dom, and  where  the  judge  and  his  school- 
mates still  prosecuted  their  studies.  In 
fact,  the  end  of  the  session  was  near  at 
hand,  and  as  it  approached,  the  exhibition 
became  the  absorbing  topic  of  conversa- 
tion with  old  and  young.  It  was  similar 
to  our  modern  commencements,  being  a 
grand  gala  day,  when  there  were  public  ex- 
ercises by  the  students,  and  which  were  wit- 
nessed by  the  parents  of  the  scholars,  and 
all  others  who  took  an  interest  in  the  cause 
of  education.  Great  preparations  were,  of 
course,  made,  and  for  wee'ks  previous  the 
boys  daily  rehearsed  before  the  master,  and 
in  the  presence  of  each  other,  speeches, 
plays,  and  dialogues;  the  grounds  around 
the  school-house  were  cleanly  swept,  and 
decorated  by  the  girls  wiih  the  nicest  care, 
and  workmen  were  engaged  in  preparing 
seats.  All,  from  the  master  down  to  the 
smallest  scholar,  got  new  suits  of  clothes 
for  this  occasion,  which  many  regarded  as 
the  most  important  era  in  their  lives. 

The  day,  the  eventful  day,  so  anxiously 
expected,  come  at  last.  It  was  in  the 
month  of  April,  just  after  the  vacant  throne 
of  Winter  had  been  occupied  by  her  more 
gentle  sister,  Spring,  whose  advent  was 


merrily  hailed  by  her  unnumbered  choirs 
of  gay  and  feathered  minstrels,  and  whose 
smile  awoke  a  fresh  bloom  on  the  wan 
and  faded  cheek  of  Nature,  now  crowned 
with  buds  and  blossoms,  and  shining  in  the 
green  robes  of  her  early  youth.  At  an 
early  hour  the  seats  were  rilled  by  the  la- 
dies; and  the  boys,  awkwardly  wearing 
their  fine  new  clothes,  were  shivering  in 
the  house,  looking  wistfully  at  the  gather- 
ing crowd,  and  feeling  like  culprits  who 
were  that  day  to  be  led  out  to  execution. 
All  the  patrons  of  the  school,  and  all  their 
relations — all  Alamance,  with  a  sprinkling 
of  gallants  from  distant  parts,  were  there. 
We  said  all  Alamance,  but  we  should  have 
excepted  the  Glutsons  and  George  War- 
den and  his  wife,  the  latter  two  of  whom 
were  .absent  because  their  son  was  to  be 
one  of  the  speakers.  At  ten  o'clock  in  the 
morning  the  curtain  rose,  and  Corny  Demi- 
john, marshal  for  the  day,  and  arrayed  in 
a  suit  of  faded  uniform,  stepped  out  upon 
the  stage.  On  his  head  sat  a  fierce  three- 
cornered  cap,  a  huge  red  sash -glittered 
round  his  waist,  and  his  coat  being  button- 
ed to  the  chin,  its  long  and  slender  skirts 
stood  widely  and  stiffly  apart,  as  if  too 
proud  to  touch  each  other.  Next  after 
Marshal  Corny  came  two  negro  fiddlers, 
then  the  students,  ranged  two  abreast,  and, 
lastly,  the  clowns  or  fools  in  masks  and 
comic  dresses,  and  acting  as  lieutenants. 
Uncle  Corny,  conscious  that  every  eye 
was  bent  on  him,  with  his  gaze  fixed 
sternly  on  a  point  in  the  distant  horizon, 
his  head  thrown  back,  and  the  point  of  his 
sword  resting  on  his  shoulder,  strode  off 
with  the  step  of  an  ancient  Titan;  the  fid- 
dlers, feeling  as  Uncle  Corny  did,  scraped 
away  as  if  they  were  performing  the  grand 
finale  of  all  mortal  fiddling ;  the  clowns, 
believing  they  were  the  objects  of  general  • 
attraction,  acted  accordingly,  and  each 
student,  thinking  that  he  himself  fixed  ev- 
ery gaze,  felt  his  heart  throb  within  him, 
and  envied  the  courage  and  coolness  of 
fiddlers  and  commanders.  In  this  way  the 
column  marched  off  to  the  spring,  and  per- 
forming a  circuit,  wheeled,  and  started  to 
the  hotise.  The  military  pride  of  the  com- 
mander-in-chief, low  getting  the  mastery 
over  his  judgment,  and  forgetting  every 
thing  else  except  the  happy  opportunity  of 
displaying  his  skill,  he  undertook  to  carry 
his  men  through  certain  difficult  evolutions. 
Of  course  his  soldiers  were  raw  at  the 
business,  and  hence,  by  the  assistance  of 
his  frisky  lieutenants,  who  perverted  all 
the  commands,  he  had  some  wheeling  to 
the  right  and  some  to  the  left,  some  fa- 
cing north  and  some  facing  south,  some 
whirling  round  and  some  deploying  into 
squads,  till  the  whole  were  brought  to  a 
dead  halt  in  a  confused  and  solid  mass. 
"  Forward,  by  one,  inarch  !"  cried  Marshal 
Corny,  in  a  fury  of  passion.     "To  the 


58 


ALAMANC  E. 


right,  by  platoons,  wheel;  rear  fronting 
flank,  and  flank  crosswise  !"  shouted  one 
lieutenant;  "Front  ranks  face  backwards, 
and  centre  wheel  towards  Sunday !"  shout- 
ed the  other.  Thus  they  had  it,  all  three 
of  the  commanders  talking  at  once ;  the 
fiddlers  playing  different  tunes,  and  the 
boys  running  against  and  falling  over  each 
other,  till  Uncle  Corny,  overcome  by  rage, 
applied  his  foot  so  fiercely  to  his  lieuten- 
ants, that  they  gave  a  respectful  attention 
to  his  commands.  He  thus  finally  got  his 
men  into  a  line,  made  them  fire  several 
rounds  with  their  horsemen's  pistols,  and 
got  them  all  safely  back  into  the  house 
without  any  other  accident  except  one 
which  befel  himself.  As  he  strode  up  the 
steps  of  the  stage,  one  of  the  clowns  tripped 
his  legs  from  under  him,  and  sent  him  with 
an  accelerated  velocity  into  the  lap  of  a 
fat  widow  who  sat  near.  She,  in  her  turn, 
went  over,  seizing,  as  she  went,  the  lame 
leg  of  an  old  gentleman,  and  sending  him 
some  distance  forward,  his  spectacled  face 
striking  furiously  against  the  bare  head  of 
a  screaming  urchin. 

Thus  they  tumbled,  one  upon  another, 
the  crowd  in  great  excitement  rushing  to- 
wards them,  some  shouting  "  fire,"  and 
some  crying  "  murder,"  and  many  of  them 
falling  over  those  already  down,  until  Un- 
cle Corny  and  the  widow  formed  the  base 
of  a  circular  pyramid  of  prostrate  bodies, 
and  were  nearly  suffocated  in  each  other's 
embraces.  It  was  well  for  the  clown  that 
the  widow  was  one  of  those  chiefly  affect- 
ed by  his  trick,  for  her  influence  only  could 
restrain  Demijohn  from  running  his  sword 
through  the  body  of  the  author  of  the  ac- 
cident. Order  was  at  last  restored,  and  at 
the  sound  of  a  bell  the  curtain  again  rose, 
when  a  white-haired  boy,  with  his  shirt- 
•  collar  sawing  his  ears,  his  eyes  starting 
from  their  sockets,  and  fingers  twitching 
nervously  at  his  pantaloons,  advanced  a 
few  paces,  and  halting,  dipped  his  head  for- 
wards as  if  he  would  pitch  it  at  the  audi- 
ence. Everybody  knows  how  boys  speak 
"in  public  on  the  stage,"  and  the  Alamance 
boys  were  not  an  exception  to  the  general 
rule! 

After  the  eloquent  efforts  of  two  or  three 
of  the  smaller  scholars,  and  after  the  play- 
ing of  two  or  three  animated  tunes  by  the 
fiddlers,  the  rising  of  the  curtain  disclosed 
Ben  Rust,  who,  with  a  series  of  low  bows 
to  those  in  front  and  at  his  sides,  advan- 
ced to  the  edge  of  the  stage.  Here  he  halt- 
ed, made  another  profound  and  oriental 
salaam,  and  smiling  on  the  crowd  general- 
ly, and  winking  specially  at  two  or  three 
of  his  friends,  the  loud  tones  of  his  stento- 
rian voice  suddenly  burst  on  the  astonished 
audience  like  a  clap  of  thunder,  and  Ben 
was  soon  some  distance  in  the  oration  of 
Cicero  against  Verres.  He  stood  with  his 
arms   hanging   at    his    sides,   his   mouth 


stretched  to  its  widest  limit,  and  his  voice 
at  its  very  highest  pitch,  paying  no  at- 
tention to  stops  and  periods,  and  often 
halting  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence.  At 
these  occasional  pauses,  made  at  regular 
intervals,  and  without  reference  to  the 
sense  of  his  speech,  he  would  violently 
flourish  his  arms  through  the  air  at  imagi- 
nary foes  before  and  around  him,  by  way 
of  performing,  at  these  intervals,  the  ne- 
cessary amount  of  gesticulation  for  that 
part  of  his  oration  last  gone  over.  Now 
it  happened  that  one  of  Rust's  friends  was 
perched  upon  a  tree  near  by,  and  this  wor- 
thy, being  carried  away  by  the  stormy 
eloquence  of  his  crony,  forgot  himself*, 
and  in  his  excitement  shouting  "  whoorah 
for  Ben !"  the  limb  on  which  he  sat  broke, 
and  he  came  with  a  crash  to  the  ground, 
finishing  the  sentence  as  he  fell.  Ben's  . 
attention  was  arrested  by  the  scene,  and 
his  ideas  began  to  swim  into  each  other. 
At  a  loss  for  words,  he  changed  his  posi- 
tion, bowed,  and  gesticulated.  Still,  not 
being  able  to  remember  where  he  had  left 
off,  he  again  bowed,  boxed  furiously  at  a 
circle  of  ideal  antagonists,  and  took  a  new 
position.  The  master,  whose  prompting 
from  within  Rust  could  not  hear,  now 
started  on  the  stage ;  but  Ben  waved  him 
back  with  his  hand,  and  on  a  new  key 
commenced  a  new  discourse,  reciting, 
without  pause,  emphasis,  or  varied  tone, 

"  The  starry  firmament  on  high." 

"  And  now,  my  Christin  friends  and  feller 
sinners,"  said  he,  "  my  spoutin's  over  for 
the  day.  Our  old  friend  Proximus  made 
us  all  git  two  speeches,  one  for  the  mornin 
and  one  for-the  evenin,  but  I  thought  while 
my  hand  was  in  I  mout  as  well  make  a 
lumpin  job  of  the  whole  consarn,  and,  as 
the  sayin  is,  kill  two  birds  with  one  stone.  - 
I  never  was  good  at  the  oratories  no  how, 
and  when  you  put  me  on  a  discourse  of  an 
old  heathen  Greek  or  Tartar  I'm  sure  to  . 
make  a  mess  of  it ;  but  if  any  body  will 
jist  give  me  a  speech  on  liberty  I  guess  I'd 
shew  you  how  to  make  the  fur  fly  some. 
Thank  you  for  your  attention." 

Notwithstanding  the  admirable  grace 
with  which  Ben  thus  redeemed  his  failure, 
the  master  was  greatly  mortified,  and  de- 
termined to  play  his  best  card  next.  Henry 
Warden,  by  his  assistance,  had  composed 
an  original  address  on  the  wrongs  of  the 
American  Colonies,  and  this,  according 
to  the  first  design,  was  to  conclude  the 
exercises  of  the  day.  M'Bride,  however, 
altered  the  arrangement,  and  ordered  the 
music  to  strike  up  and  the  curtain  to  be 
let  down,  and  when  it  rose  again,  the  judge, 
pale  and  agitated,  came  forward.  After 
pausing  a  few  moments  to  master  his 
emotion,  he  commenced  with  a  low  and 
tremulous  voice,  which  could  be  heard  only 
by  those  on  the  front  seats.     Gathering 


ALAMANCE. 


59 


confidence  as  he  advanced,  his  manner  be- 
came more  easy,  natural,  and  bold,  his 
voice  swelled  louder,  firmer,  and  richer, 
and  his  eye  flashed  with  contagious  ani- 
mation. He  was  soon  master  of  himself 
and  of  the  hearts  of  all  his  excited  and 
delighted  auditors,  when  suddenly,  and  in 
the  midst  of  the  crowd,  a  voice  exclaimed, 
"stop  the  traitor!"  It  was  a  single  and 
an  unknown  voice,  but  it  struck  solemnly 
on  every  ear,  and  instantly  there  was  a 
profound  and  painful  silence.  The  cry  of 
treason  was  even  then  a  fearful  sound,  and 
the  assembly  sat  in  hushed  and  breathless 
expectation,  each  one  gazing  anxiously  and 
enquiringly  at  his  neighbour.  As  the  judge 
looked  round  for  the  author  of  the  alarm, 
his  gaze  met  that  of  Edith  Mayfield.  Her 
cheeks  were  tinged  with  a  hectic  glow, 
her  large,  deep,  dark  eyes  beamed  with 
unearthly  dight,  and  her  whole  face  was 
lit  up  with  the  fervid  feelings  and  unutter- 
able thoughts  that  were  burning  in  her 
heaving  breast.  Slowly,  earnestly,  and 
solemnly  the  young  orator  resumed  his 
speech,  steadily  watching  the  impression 
made  on  his  hearers,  and  strongly  empha- 
sizing every  bold  and  startling  passage. 
"As  for  me,"  said  he  in  conclusion,  "my 
first  and  fiercest  hatred  was  for  the  tyrant, 
my  first  impressions  of  history  were  caught 
from  the  simple  yet  glowing  page  that  re- 
cords his  atrocities,  my  first,  most  ardent, 
and  most,  lasting  love  was  the  love  of 
liberty — liberty  of  conscience,  liberty  of 
speech,  and  liberty  of  action.  And  by  the 
favor  of  Heaven,  though  all  other  blessings 
be  denied  me — though  fortune  prove  false 
and  friends  forsake  me,  and  envy,  malice, 
and  detraction  pursue  and  dog  me — yea, 
even  though  death  itself,  in  all  its  horrors, 
frown  before  me,  while  I  tread  this  green 
earth  I  shall  walk  it  with  the  erect  soul  of  a 
freeman,  living  as  I  was  born  and  dying  as 
I  have  lived,  unfettered  by  any  chains  that 
man  can  forge,  and  owning  no  master  but 
God  my  maker !"  A  few  moments  after 
he  had  finished,  and  while  he  was  yet  on 
the  stage  blushing  at  the  buzz  of  approba- 
tion that  ran  through  the  crowd,  and  the 
encomiums  of  the  master,  who  held  him 
by  the  hand,  "Arrest  him  in  the  king's 
name  !"  startled  every  one,  and  Ross,  with 
William  Glutson  and  a  few  others  were 
seen  ascending  the  stage.  "  To  the  res- 
cue !  to  the  rescue  !"  shouted  Uncle  Corny, 
brandishing  his  sword  in  his  hand,  and 
trampling  over  the  crowd  that  stood  in  his 
way.  "  To  the  rescue !"  echoed  and  re- 
echoed others,  and  immediately  the  stage 
was  covered  with  men,  and  the  royalist 
party  flung  headlong  from  it.  They  fell 
among  an  infuriated  multitude,  and  amid 
the  shrieks  and  screams  of  women  were 
heard  the  stern  threats  for  vengeance  and 
calls  for  blood,  and  loud  and  defiant  shouts 
for  Congress  and   for  George  the  Third. 


Oaths  were  mingled  with  entreaties  and 
expostulations,  dirks  were  drawn,  pistols 
fired,  and  rocks  went  whizzing  through 
the  air,  till  at  length  the  authority  of  the 
more  moderate  ones  prevailed  and  peace 
was  restored.  The  royalists,  smothering 
their  resentment  and  covered  with  blood 
and  dust,  drew  moodily  off,  and  while  they 
were  yet  in  sight,  Ben  Rust,  Avho  was  fran- 
tic with  pleasurable  excitement,  bounced 
upon  the  stage  and  called  for  three  cheers 
for  Henry  Warden  and  Liberty.  Three  wild 
cheers  rang  through  those  old  woods,  and 
hats,  caps,  and  it  is  even  said  bonnets  flew 
thick  through  the  air,  not  a  few  of  them 
falling  and  lodging  on  the  roof  of  the  house. 
Three  cheers  for  Uncle  Corny  were  called 
for  and  given  ;  three  for  the  master,  and 
three  for  the  parson,  whereupon  this  last, 
carried  away  by  his  enthusiasm,  rushed 
upon  the  platform,  and  waving  his  hand- 
kerchief above  his  head,  called  out,  "  And 
now  my  hearties,  three  times  three  glori- 
ous, cheers  for  liberty  and  independence  !" 
Loud,  wild,  and  hearty  were  those  cheers 
indeed,  but  they  were  fearful  sounds  to 
some  in  that  assembly.  Among  these  was 
Isaiah  Mayfield,  whose  heart  quaked  at 
every  shout,  and  who,  that  he  might  not 
be  compromised  by  the  proceedings  of  the 
now  stormy  multitude,  hastily  prepared 
to  leave.  After  searching  long  for  his 
daughter,  he  found  her  at  last  in  a  remote 
part  of  the  crowd,  and  in  the  act  of  re- 
ceiving a  slip  of  paper  from  Henry  War- 
den. "  Daughter,  daughter  !"  exclaimed 
the  old  man,  mad  with  alarm ;  and  Edith 
dropped  the  paper  from  her  trembling  fin- 
gers, while  the  tears  glistened  in  her  eyes 
as  she  gave  one  last,  sad  look  to  the  judge, 
and  took  her  father's  arm.  Henry  would 
have  explained,  but  the  cautious  and  dis- 
creet Mayfield  never  could  endure  an  ex- 
planation, always  clinging  with  the  tena- 
city of  death  to  his  first  opinions  and  im- 
pressions, while  his  suspicions,  however 
aroused,  still  grew  darker  and  darker.  As 
he  went  off,  almost  dragging  his  weeping 
daughter,  there  was  some  disposition  to 
hiss  him  ;  but  the  master  was  now  on  the 
stage  and  called  for  silence.  "  Let  them 
go  in  peace,"  said  he,  "let  them  go  who 
have  no  stomach  for  the  fight.  As  we  are 
about  to  take  a  great  step  and  assume  a 
mighty  responsibility,  I  will  say  to  you 
all,  my  friends,  as  the  Lord  said  to  Gideon 
on  Mount  Gilead,  '  whoever  is  fearful  and 
afraid  let  him  return  and  depart  early,'  for 
we  want  no  timid  souls  among  our  host. 
My  friends,  'Othello's  occupation's  gone,' 
the  schoolmaster's  vocation  is  over  for 
the  present,  and  God  knows  when  it  will 
be  resumed.  It  is  said  that  inter  anna 
silent  leges,  and  I  may  say  the  same  of 
letters,  for  I  cannot  teach  while  '  grim- 
visaged  war'  still  shows  his  '  wrinkled 
front.'    Yes,  my  friends  and  countrymen. 


60 


ALAMANCE. 


the  terrible  blast  of  war  has  sounded 
through  our  peaceful  borders  ;  a  struggle 
has  commenced,  and  it  must  end  in  our 
slavery  or  in  our  glorious  emancipation. 
I,  for  one,  have  no  fears ;  I,  for  one,  be- 
lieve that  the  Great  Ruler  of  nations  is 
now  about  to  effect  one  of  his  grandest 
purposes.  The  magnus  ordo  sceclorum  is 
about  to  begin:  a  new  era  is  dawning; 
man  is  about  to  be  redeemed  frfltai  bond- 
age. I  cannot  sit  idle  while  this  struggle 
is  going  on ;  1  must  exchange  the  rod  for 
the  sword,  and  act  my  part.  And  you,  my 
beloved  scholars,  you,  my  respected  pa- 
trons, neighbours,  and  countrymen,  where 
will  you  be  ?  Oh  !  will  you  go  with  me  ? 
Will  you  join,  with  one  heart  and  one  hand, 
in  this  glorious  work  V  A  loud  shout,  of, 
"We  will!  we  will  to  the  dealh!"  answered 
this  question.  "  Then,"  continued  the  mas- 
ter, "  let  us  record  our  vow,  let  us  all  sign 
this  solemn  pledge,  which  I  will  read  : 
'We  whose  names  are  hereto  affixed,  ac- 
tuated by  love  for  our  common  country, 
and  an  unconquerable  attachment  to  liber- 
ty, do  hereby  pledge  ourselves  to  devote 
our  time,  our  property,  and  our  lives  to 
the  redemption  of  that  country  from  British 
oppression,  and  to  the  establishment  of 
that  liberty  on  secure  foundations.'  When 
the  contest  is  over,  and 
*  Our  bruised  arms  hung  up  for  monuments, 
Our  stern  alarums  changed  to  merry  meetings,' 

the  roll  of  names  attached  to  this  scroll 
shall  be  called  again.  Those  who  have 
fallen  in  the  strife  shall  be  embalmed  for 
ever  in  the  grateful  memories  of  freemen  ; 
those  who  have  deserted  the  cause  shall 
be  marked  for  everlasting  execration.  My 
name  is  already  to  the  paper;  come  up, 
all  you  that  wish  to  follow  my  example.'' 
There  was  immediately  a  tremendous 
rush  to  obey  this  summons,  and  soon  sev- 
eral sheets  of  paper  were  covered  with 
names.  As  this  remarkable  document  was 
preserved  by  the  master,  and  is  now  in 
possession  of  the  editor,  and  as  it  cannot 
be  inspected  by  all  the  curious,  we  will 
mention  some  interesting  particulars  in 
regard  to  it.  The  name  of  David  Cald- 
well stands  second  on  the  list.  There  are 
a  great  number  of  female  signatures  ;  and 
there  are  some  which  appear  to  have  been 
afterwards  affixed.  All  ages  are  here  rep- 
resented ;  for  you  can.  see  the  tremulous 
hand  of  the  octogenarian,  and  the  rough 
and  angular  autograph  of  the  school-boy. 
We  observe  the  Demijohn  is  spelled  with 
two  m\<t,  and  the  name  of  Ben  Rust  is  writ- 
ten in  capital  letters,  each  one  of  which 
leans  off  in  a  different  direction  from  its 
neighbour.  The  only  other  thing  worthy 
of  mention  is  the  following  signature  at 
the  bottom  of  one  of  the  lists, 
bis 
"  Warden's  -f-  Ben,  witness  Ben  Rust." 

mark 


The  signing  of  this  paper  anri  a  fervent 
prayer  from  the  Rev.  Dr.  Caldwell  ended 
the  ceremonies  of  the  day.  The  people 
were  not  in  a  humour  to  hear  other 
speeches  and  dialogues;  the  master  and 
his  scholars  were  absorbed  with  a  new 
train  of  thoughts,  and  so  all  quietly  dis- 
persed, soberly  discussing  among  them- 
selves the  incidents  of  the  day.  The  judge 
had,  to  a  great  extent,  regained  his  repu- 
tation, and,  occupied  with  serious  prepara- 
tions for  another  mode  of  life,  he  forgot, 
hi  a  measure,  his  recent  grief,  and  busily 
prepared  for  the  grave  theatre  of  action 
on  which  he  was  about  to  enter. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


A  few  years  made  a  great  change  in  the 
appearance  of  things  at  Alamance.  When 
we  last  closed  our  narrative,  a  cloud  hung 
in  the  political  skies;  before  the  time  at 
which  we  resume  this  history  the  storm 
had  burst,  and  war,  with  its  grandeur  and 
its  horrors,  had  been  raging  in  every  part 
of  the  country.  The  schoolmaster's  vo- 
cation was  indeed  gone,  and  so  was  that 
of  every  other  teacher  of  the  arts  of  peace  ; 
for  the  Genius  of  Destruction  was  now  at 
work,  laying  in  ruins  the  labour  of  many 
years,  that  mankind  might  take  a  new 
start  where  they  had  begun  a  century  be- 
fore. There  must  be  wars  ;  such  is  the 
doom  of  the  world  ;  for  the  course  of  things 
here  is, like  the  stone  of  Sisyphus,  ever 
aiming  at,  but  never  reaching  a  certain 
end — a  downward  progress,  invariably  be- 
ginning just  before  the  desired  elevation  is 
attained. 

The  earth  looked  worn  and  wasted  ;  so- 
cial intercouse  and  social  harmony  were 
destroyed ;  all  improvements,  moral,  art- 
istical,  and  agricultural,  were  arrested,  and 
for  the  cheerful  sounds  of  thrifty  industry 
were  now  heard  the  tramp  of  marching 
troops,  the  hoarse  rattle  of  the  drum,  and 
the  ear-piercing  fife.  Every  place  was 
drained  of  its  resources,  every  family  was 
mourning  the  loss  of  some  valued  mem- 
ber, and  all  the  evils  attendant  on  a  pro- 
tracted contest  of  arms,  unbridled  licen- 
tiousness, depraved  morals,  drunkenness, 
famine,  and  pestilence,  were  let  loose  on 
the  land.  Many  still  adhering  to  the  royal 
cause,  the  controversy  assumed  the  cruel 
and  murderous  character  of  a  civil  war, 
and  women  and  children  were  not  exempt- 
ed from  its  injuries.  This  was  more  par- 
ticularly the  case  in  North  Carolina,  where 
a  large  body  of  citizens  still  remained 
faithful  in  their  allegiance  to  the  English 
crown.  The  southern  part  of  the  State 
had  been  settled  by  families  from  the  High- 
lands of  Scotland,  whence  they  had  emi- 
grated in  consequence  of  the  odium  into 


ALAMANCE. 


CI 


which  they  had  grown  with  the  reigning 
family,  on  account  of  their  former  attach- 
ment to  (lie  Stuarts.  To  avoid  vexatious 
exactions  and  persecutions  from  the  royal 
governor  of  North  Carolina,  and  to  display 
their  loyalty  to  the  now  firmly-established 
Guelphs,  they  early  espoused  the  side  of 
England  in  her  disputes  with  her  colonies, 
and  served  George  the  Third  with  zeal  and 
fidelity.  These  were  honourable  and  hon- 
est men,  and  brave  soldiers;  and,  devoted 
to  their  cause,  ihey  sometimes  encouraged 
and  protected  another  class  of  royalists 
who  were  scattered  over  the  state,  and 
whom  they  doubtless  believed  to  be  true 
'.  subjects,  but  between  whom  and  them- 
i  selves  there  was,  in  fact,  the"  same  differ- 
ence that  there  is  between  the  pirate  and 
!  the  sailor  who  fights  under  the  flag  of  his 
.country.  This  other  class,  the  regular 
I  Tories,  were  lawless  marauders,  who  made 
use  of  the  occasion  to  gratify  their  thieving 
and  malicious  propensities.  They  were, 
in  fact,  robbers  and  assassins,  more  detest- 
i  able  than  any  race  of  men  of  whom  Time's 
records  speak.  The  Moss  troopers  of 
Germany,  and  the  banditti  of  Italy  and 
of  Spain,  and  even  the  Leperos  and  Ran- 
cheros  of  modern  Mexico,  rarely  joined 
the  external  enemies  of  their  countries, 
and  therefore  are  not  to  be  compared  to 
the  American  Tories,  for  whom  was  re- 
served the,  unenviable  distinction  of  com- 
bining pillage  and  patricide,  theft  and  mur- 
der, without  the  palliation  of  necessity  or 
the  decent  pretext  of  patriotism.  They 
lurked  in  every  part  of  i he.  state;  and,  in 
those,  neighbourhoods  which  were  unpro- 
tected by  organized  forces,  they  would 
swoop  down  w+th  fire  and  sword,  carrying 
off  and  burning  the  property  of  patriot 
families,  and  sparing  neither  age  nor  sex 
in  the  gratification  of  their  base  lusts  and 
sanguinary  passions. 


CHAPTKR  XX. 

THE  IIKROINKS  (IF  AI.AMAJfCE. 

At  the  time  alluded  to  in  the  last  chap- 
ter, the  Tories  were  a  terror  at  Alamance. 
Many  of  the  Whigs  were  absent  in  the 
service  of  their  country,  and  their  murder- 
ous enemies  overran  the  neighbourhood, 
beating  women,  burnii  g  barns,  robbing 
bouses,  and  carrying  off  cattle  and  slaves. 
Such,  for  a  considerable  period,  was  the 
state  of  things  ;  the  few  remaining  Whigs, 
consisting  of  old  men  and  invalids,  having 
been  driven  from  their  homes  and  families, 
and  compelled  to  hide  in  swamps  and  thick- 
ets, where  they  subsisted  chiefly  on  fruits 
and  berries.  To  add  to  the  horrors  of 
the  times,  a  malignant  and  fatal  epidemic 
'  broke  out  in  the  community,  and  scourged 
nearly  every  family.  The  Rev.  Dr.  (^Id- 
well,  the  regular  physician,  was  hunted 
from  place  to  place  with  untiring  ferocity; 


medicines  were  scarce,  and  even  the  com- 
mon comforts  necessary  for  the  sick  were 
wanting.  It  was  a  time  that  tried  the 
souls  of  men,  and  of  women,  too;  and 
these  latter,  as,  well  as  the  former,  were 
found  equal  to  the  occasion.  With  a  pure 
and  heroic  devotion  to  a  forlorn  but  noble 
cause,  the  females  of  Alamance  shone 
with  a  brighter  and  serener  lustre  than 
ever  did  the  savage  Spartan  mothers,  or 
the  haughty  dames  and  military  damsels 
of  feudal  times.  They  formed  an  associa- 
tion for  their  mutual  protection;  laboured 
day  and  night  in  the  manufacture  of  cloth- 
ing for  the  soldiers;  and  braved  the  ter- 
rors of  the  pestilence  and  the  dangers  of 
darkness  and  the  elements,  to  tend  and 
nurse  the  sick,  and  to  carry  food  to  their 
exiled  friends,  husbands,  and  brothers. 
From  the  smallest  girl  to  the  most  aged 
matron,  all  were  taught  to  consider  them- 
selves and  all  they  had  as  belonging  to 
their  country,  of  whose  cause  they  never 
despaired,  and  whose  defenders  they  en- 
couraged to  persevere  in  their  glorious  un- 
dertaking. The  master's  notes  are  full  of 
instances  of  individual  heroism,  virtue,  and 
devotion  ;  but,  as  these  incidents  would  fill 
a  volume,  we  will  but  briefly  notice  a  few 
of  the  most  prominent  and  active  charac- 
ters, who  are  more  worthy  of  notice  only 
because  they  were  more  generally  known 
than  others. 

Esther  Bell,  whose  husband  and  whose 
sons  were  in  the  service,  was  a  woman  of 
a  strong  mind  and  a  masculine  character — 
active,  brave,  and  untiring.  Her  husband 
was  rich;  and  all  his  negro  men  being 
good  Wrhigs,  and  trained  by  Big  Dan,  one 
of  their  number,  to  the  use  of  arms,  they 
protected  their  mistress,  and  formed  an  ef- 
ficient guard  to  the  plantation.  Esther 
Bell  herself,  more  commonly  known  as- 
Dr.  Bell,  was  somewhat  skilled  in  med- 
icines, and,  with  pistols  at  her  saddle-bow, 
rode  day  and  night,  visiting  and  prescrib- 
ing for  the  sick.  Polly  Rust,  the  mother 
of  Ben,  was  called,  by  the  Tories,  Major 
Poll,  and,  with  a  rifle  on  her  shoulder  and 
a  dirk  and  pistols  at  her  girdle,  patrolled 
the  neighbourhood.  She  was  a  plain,  stout 
woman,  perfectly  fearless,  and  was  consid- 
ered as  the  military  chief  of  the  commu- 
nity, every  part  of  which  felt  her  protec- 
tion. Mother  Demijohn,  like  Polly  Rust, 
was  also  a  widow,  and  her  only  son  Corny 
was  generally  absent  in  the  war.  She  was 
very  old,  with  a  venerable  appearance,  and 
a  head  as  white  as  cotton  ;  and  yet,  attend- 
ed only  by  a  single  female  servant,  she 
was  constantly  on  the  road.  She  was  de- 
voutly pious,  knew  the  whole  Scriptures 
by  heart,  and  well  deserved  her  name  of 
Parson.  Better  known  and  more  gener- 
ally employed,  and  yet  more  lender  than 
any  of  these,  was  Edith  Mayfield,  who- 
was  now  grown,  and  whose  chaj-ms  of 


62 


ALAMANCE. 


mind  and  person  were  wearing  their  rich- 
est bloom.  Modest,  diffident,  and  retiring 
in  her  disposition  in  peaceful  times,  and 
shrinking  with  painful  timidity  from  the  ad- 
miring gaze  which  her  beauty  won,  she  was 
brave,  constant,  and  firm  in  the  hour  of 
trial,  facing  danger  with  a  serene  counte- 
nance and  steady  eye,,  and  lighting  with 
her  perpetual  smile  the  gloom  of  those 
dark  and  troublous  times.  Her  long-cher- 
ished aspirations  were  now  realized ;  for 
she  now  found  herself  usefully  employed 
in  one  of  those  mighty  and  glorious  causes 
that  had  often  floated  in  misty  grandeur 
before  her  young  imagination,  and  which, 
from  the  very  days  of  her  childhood,  had 
occupied  her  thoughts  and  dreams.  It  is 
not  often  that  the  good  and  pure  and  great 
in  soul  find  in  this  world  such  work  as  they 
would  like  to  be  engaged  in  ;  and  therefore 
it  is  that  they  have  recourse  to  fancy,  and 
live  in  an  ideal  world,  where  they  are  ever 
carrying  out  the  noble  and  grand  purposes 
of  their  generous  hearts.  Thus  it  had  been 
with  Edith,  and  thus  it  was  with  Henry 
"Warden,  than  whom,  in  all  her  imaginary 
kingdoms,  she  could  not  find  a  more  per- 
fect hero.  His  character  was  now  proving 
to  be  precisely  Avhat  she  thought  it ;  for 
in  that  great  revolution  going  on — the 
greatest  in  her  and  his  estimation  of  which 
this  earth  had  ever  been  the  theatre — he 
was  acting  a  conspicuous  part.  Hers, 
which  she  well  understood,  was  less  noto- 
rious, but  not  less  important ;  and  she  en- 
tered on  the  discharge  of  her  duties  with 
cheerful  enthusiasm  and  untiring  zeal. 
Her  throne  was  by  the  bed  of  the  sick, 
and  haggard  disease  lost  half  its  terrors 
at  her  coming.  To  the  young  and  to  the 
aged,  to  the  helpless  and  the  suffering,  she 
was  a  ministering  spirit  of  good ;  impart- 
ing peace  to  the  souls  of  the  dying,  and 
irradiating  with  the  mild  beams  of  hope 
the  hearts  of  the  living.  Fearless  alike 
of  the  Tories  and  of  "  the  pestilence  that 
walketh  in  darkness  and  wasteth  at  noon- 
day," she  was  always  on  the  wing,  always 
present  where  most  needed ;  the  well- 
known  sound  of  her  footsteps  falling  cheer- 
fully on  the  ears  of  the  wretched,  while 
pain  and  despondency  fled  before  the  light 
of  her  sweetly-beaming  face  as  she  crossed 
the  threshold. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

WAR AT    HOME. 

Little  Wash,  Mrs.  Warden's  youngest 
son,  fell  dangerously  ill  with  the  prevailing 
epidemic,  and  called  daily  for  his  brother, 
whom  he  had  not  lately  seen.  At  his  earn- 
est request  Mrs.  W.  had  written  to  Henry 
a  letter,  to'be  carried  by  Ben ;  and  Esther 
Bell  was  sent  for,  that  her  skill  might  save 
the  little  patient's  life,  or  prolong  his  days, 


until  he  could  sde  his  father  and  brother. 
The  good  woman  started  in  the  night,  and 
without  an  attendant,  but  had  not  gone 
far  before  the  bridle  of  her  horse  was  seiz- 
ed, while  two  ruffians  dragged  her  to  the 
ground  and  commenced  beating  her  with 
clubs.  She  would  soon  have  been  horridly 
mangled,  but  for  her  presence  of  mind, 
which  never  deserted  her.  Looking  up  the 
road,  she  uttered  a  joyful  exclamation,  and 
called  on  Dan  to  hurry  on  with  his  men,  as 
the  Tories  were  now  in  his  power.  She- 
was  instantly  released,  and,  mounting  her 
horse,  she  put  him  to  his  full  speed,  until 
she  arrived  at  Wardens'.  Here  the  Tories 
were  also  in  force;  for  she  had  scarcely 
finished  the  narrative  of  her  adventure 
when  the  house  was  violently  entered  by 
an  armed  party,  some  of  whom,  presenting 
their  guns  to  the  breast  of  Mrs.  Warden, 
commanded  her,  on  pain  of  instant  death, 
to  reveal  the  hiding-place  of  her  husband. 

"  He  is  hid  in  the  strength  of  the  Lord, 
and  defies  your  power,"  answered  Esther 
Bell  for  her  neighbour. 

"  Woman !"  exclaimed  the  leader  of  the 
band,  "  tell  us  where  that  rebel,  George 

Warden  is,  or  by  G ,  I'll  blow  you  brains' 

out  on  the  spot.     Will  you  speak  V 

"  I  will,"  replied  Mrs.  Warden ;  "  I  will 
speak  to  you,  though  you  are  as  deaf  to- 
the  calls  of  mercy  as  a  famished  wolf. 
You  call  my  husband  a  rebel,  and  you  de- 
sire to  put  him  to  death,  because,  as  you 
allege,  he  has  been  guilty  of  treason  to  his 
royal  master.  Were  his  obligations  to  the 
English  king  as  sacred  and  binding  as. 
those  of  a  wife  to  her  husband1?  You  may 
kill  or  torture  me,  but  I  will  never  betray 
him.  Yet,  for  mercy's  sake,  do  not  mur- 
der me  here ;  carry  me  beyond  the  sight- 
and  hearing  of  my  poor  child,  who  lies 
there  at  the  point  of  death." 

Whatever  may  have  been  the  wishes  of 
the  captain  o*f  the  robbers,  he  was  com- 
pelled to  obey  the  wishes  of  his  associates, 
and  for  the  present  ordered  the  ladies  to  be 
tied  and  carried  into  one  of  the  kitchens. 
The  little  patient,  Wash,  who  was  lying 
on  a  pallet  by  the  fire,  feeble,  sick,  and 
helpless  as  he  was,  could  not  brook  the 
indignities  offered  to  his  mother.  For  a 
moment  his  failing  energies  seemed  to  ral- 
ly, and  nerve  him  with  unnatural  strength, 
and,  rushing  against  the  man  who  had 
seized  his  mother,  he  endeavoured  to  push 
him  off.  The  Tory  struck  the  young  hero 
op  the  head,  and  he  fell,  clinging  to  his 
mother's  clothes.  As  she  stooped  over 
him  to  gather  him  up,  he  put  his  arms 
about  her  neck  and  said,  with  a  faint  smile, 

"  Give  my  love  to  brother  Henry,  and 
tell  him  farewell.  All  of  you  meet  me 
in  heaven.     Now  kiss  me,  mother." 

She  put  her  lips  to  his ;  but  ere  she  with- 
drew them  the  seal  of  death  was  on  his 
serene  and  manly  face,  and  his  heroic  young 


ALAMANCE. 


63 


spirit  no  longer  animated  its  frail  tene- 
ment of  clay. 

"  Oh  God !  oh  merciful  God,  thy  will  be 
done !"  exclaimed  the  agonized  mother,  as 
she  pressed  the  lifeless  form  of  her  son  to 
her  bosom. 

The  robbers,  somewhat  touched  by  the 
grief  of  the  women,  left  them  with  the 
corpse,  and  commenced  pillaging  the  house. 
One  of  the  first  rooms  which  they  entered 
was  the  chamber  of  Kate,  who,  awakened 
by  the  noise,  and  hearing  shrieks  and  cries 
in  the  adjoining  room,  where  her  brother 
was,  and  seeing  strange  and  horrid-looking 
men  in  her  own  room,  was  "dreadfully 
frightened.  She  screamed  and  started 
from  her  bed,  when  several  bayonets  were 
placed  against  her  throat,  and  she  was  or- 
dered to  be  still.  The  poor  girl,  half  dead 
with  fear,  and  believing  her  mother  and 
brother  had  been  murdered,  lay  trembling 
in  bed,  and  saw  all  the  valuables  in  the 
room  destroyed  or  carried  away.  Every 
part  of  the  house  was  ransacked  ;  doors 
were  broken  open,  bureaus  and  sideboards 
smashed  to  pieces,  the  beds  ripped  open, 
chairs,  tables,  and  bed-clothes  flung  into 
the  yard  ;  and  money,  papers,  dresses,  and 
every  portable  article  of  value  carried  off. 
While  these  outrages  were  being  commit- 
ted in  the  house,  a  singular  incident  oc- 
curred in  the  yard.  The  kitchen  doors  had 
been  cautiously  fastened,  and  a  sentinel 
left  at  each  to  prevent  any  of  the  servants 
from  escaping  to  alarm  the  neighbourhood, 
or  from  making  resistance  to  the  plunder- 
ing of  the  house.  Old  Ben,  whose  wits 
had  been  much  exercised  of  late,  awoke 
while  these  preparations  were  going  on, 
and  heard  the  conversation  of  the  Tories. 
Raising  a  plank  from  the  floor  of  his  cabin, 
he  cautiously  crept  out  under  the  house, 
and  was  stealing  off  with  stealthy  pace, 
when  he  was  heard  and  discovered. 

"  Shoot  the  d — d  scoundrel !"  shouted 
one  of  the  company ;  but  as  soon  as  the 
word  was  given  Ben  shed  his  single. gar- 
ment and  disappeared  in  the  darkness.  His 
shirt  was  instantly  riddled  with  balls,  but 
the  owner  had  escaped.  Having  glutted 
themselves  with  plunder,  the  banditti  with- 
drew, and  took  the  road  to  Glutson's,upon 
which  they  came  to  a  small  fire,  around 
which  several  of  their  comrades  were  seat- 
ed, Waiting  for  them. 

"Where  is  George  Warden?"  hastily 
demanded  one  of  those  by  the  fire — a  man 
who,  from  his  dress,  seemed  to  be  an  officer 
and  a  gentleman. 

"Can't  tell,  captain,"  answered  the  lead- 
er of  the  robbing  party  ;  "  I  know  as  little 
of  his  whereabouts  as  you  do." 

"  You  found  the  whereabouts  of  the 
plunder,  though,"  said  the  other,  with  a 
sneer;  "and  while  youreyes  were  glued 
to  that  you  could  not  have  seen  George 
Washington  and  the  whole  rebel  army." 


"  That  may  be  so,  captain,"  replied  the 
robber,  laughing  ;  "  for  when  I  see  the  yal- 
ler  boys  I'm  charmed.  Howsever,  if  I'd 
a-had  my  way  I  would  have  found  George 
Warden,  or  sent  his  wife  to  wait  and  pray 
for  his  speedy  arrival  in  kingdom  come. 
But  my  men  were  women,  and  the  women 
were  she-devils." 

The  British  officer  replied  to  this  speech 
by  remarking,  as  if  talking  to  himself — 
"  Not  at  home — he  must  have  been  there 
to-night.  Men,"  continued  he,  in  a  louder 
tone,  "  listen  to  me,  and  see  that  you  obey 
me.  We  will  go  to  a  place  where  you  can 
sell  or  deposit  your  cursed  plunder,  and 
then  I  have  other  work  for  you  to  do.  Let 
no  man  straggle  off,  or  drink  a  drop  of 
spirits,  for  you  are  to  be  engaged  in  a  most 
important  matter.  You  must  ask  me  no 
questions,  and  do  only  as  I  bid  you ;  and 
remember !  it  is  in  my  power  to  reward 
you  well,  or  have  you  hanged." 

In  a  neighbouring  thicket  there  were 
watchful  eyes  marking  these  proceedings. 

"  Good !"  quietly  observed  a  hidden  spec- 
tator ;  "  now  that  we've  got  your  secrets 
we'll  use  the  privilege  of  presentin  you 
with  a  little  lead,  accompanied  with  our 
respects,  viva  voce." 

The  sharp  crack  of  rifles  rung  keenly 
through  the  woods,  and  the  chief  of  the 
robbers  and  another  bounced  from  their 
feet,  and  fell  dead  in  the  road,  and  silence 
again  reigned  around.  The  astonished 
and  terrified  Tories  dropped  their  plunder, 
and  were  about  to  disperse,  when  the  offi- 
cer rallied  them,  and  ordered  them  to  ex- 
tinguish the  fire.  As  they  were  scatter- 
ing the  coals,  a  rifle  was  again  heard,  and 
a  third  man  rolled  lifeless  on  the  earth. 

"  That's  proximus  and  the  last,"  said 
one  of  the  concealed  enemy ;  and,  with  the 
fleetness  of  deer,  he  and  his  companion 
plunged  farther  into  the  forest. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

A    BURIAL    AT   ALAMANCE. 

On  the  next  evening  after  the  events 
related  in  the  last  chapter,  there  were 
mourners  in  the  grave-yard  of  Alamance. 
Mrs.  Warden,  with  a  large  concourse  of 
her  female  neighbours  and  a  few  men, 
followed  to  that  last  resting-place  the  re- 
mains of  her  youngest  son.  Such  scenes 
were  so  common  that  there  w«s  little 
weeping  except  by  the  sister  and  mother, 
the  former  of  whom  clung  wildly  to  the 
coffin  ;  and  the  latter,  unsustained  by  the 
presence  of  her  husband,  lost  all  control 
over  her  feelings,  and  was  herself  as  help- 
less as  a  child.  As  the  body  was  lowered 
into  the  pit,  the  venerable  mother  of  Ala- 
mance approached  to  the  head  of  the  grave, 
and,  raising  her  eyes  upward,  cried  out, 
"  '  In  Rama  there  was  a  voice  heard,  lam- 


64 


ALAMANCE. 


entation  and  weeping,  and  great  mourn- 
ing. Rachel  weeping  for  her  children,  and 
wouULnot  be  comforted  because  they  are 
not.'  jf  Yet,  my  friends,  why  do  yon  weep  ? 
Is  there  not  an  appointed  time  to  man 
upon  earth  <  Are  not  his  days  also  like 
the  days  of  an  hireling  1  Man  that  is  born 
of  a  woman  is  of  short  continuance  and 
full  of  trouble.  He  cometh  forth  like  a 
flower  and  is  cut  down  :  he  fleeth  also  as 
a  shadow  and  continueth  not.  He  is  taken 
from  the  evil  days  to  come  ;  his  young 
spirit  has  returned  to  God  who  gave  it, 
pure  and  holy  as  it  was  when  it  first  ani- 
mated his  little  body.  He  has  left  us  but 
for  a  season ;  and  father  and  mother, 
brother  and  sister,  and  friends  shall  meet 
him  again  beyond  the  shores  of  that  stormy 
Jordan,  which  he  has  already  passed.  For 
I  know  that  my  Redeemer  liveth,  and  that 
he  shall  stand  at  the  latter  day  upon  the 
earth.  And  though  after  my  death  worms 
destroy  this  body,  yet  in  my  flesh  shall  1 
see  God.  Such  is  the  hope  of  the  right- 
eous, and  may,  our  last  end  be  like  his! 
Let  us  pray."  }  It  was  a  simple,  solemn, 
and  pathetic  prayer,  and  her  words  fell  on 
the  heart  of  Mrs.  Warden  like  the  dews  of 
heaven  on  the  withered  flower.  Dust 
Was  now  committed  to  dust,  and,  when 
the  burial  was  completed,  Nathan  Glutson, 
who  had  officiously  assisted  in  the  cere- 
monies of  the  occasion,  rose  devoutly  to 
his  feet,  uncovered  his  head,  and  asked 
the  company  to  remain  until  he  could 
make  some  remarks. 

"  My  friends,"  said  he,  "  the  Good  Book 
tells  us  that  misfortunes  never  come  sin- 
gle. We  have  just  buried  one  sweet  and 
promising  youth,  and  it  is  my  painful 
duty" — here  he  again  wiped  his  eyes — "  it 
is  my  sad  duty  to  inform  you  that  another 
sweet  blossom  of  Alamance  has  been  with- 
ered. There  is  a  Providence  that  tempers 
the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb  — so  says  that 
great  divine,  Shakspeare,  and  it  is  our  duty 
to  submit.  This,  I  hope,  my  esteemed 
friends,  Isaiah  Mayfield  and  his  lady  will 
do:  their  daughter  is  no  more.  She  has 
gone,  with  little  Wash,  to  heaven  !" 

The  announcement  sounded  like  the 
crack  of  doom  to  the  meek  and  pious  Mrs. 
Mayfield,  and  her  senses  reeling  for  a  mo- 
ment, she  fainted  away,  and  recovered 
only  to  faint  again  and  again,  till  her 
friends  began  to  fear  for  her  life.  Her 
husband  seemed  to  be  totally  unconscious 
of  her  situation,  and  of  everything  around 
him,  and  gave  strong  indications  of  mental 
aberration. 

"  Dead,  is  she  1"  said  the  old  man, "  dead, 
dead,  dead  !  Well,  that's  strange  !  Why 
don't  every  body  die]  Dead!  what  a  silly 
joke,  as  if  my  beautiful  and  warm  hearted 
child  could  lie  down  in  the  cold  ground 
stud  rot!  Yes,"  continued  he,  somewhat 
recovering,  "  I  thought  it  was  all  a  dream. 


Mr.  Glutson,  I've  had  the  vertigo,  and  as 
my  brain  turned  I  imagined  that  you  spoke 
of  my  daughter's  death  :  is  it  so  ?'' 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say  it  is  so."  answered 
Glutson  ;  and,  after  a  hundred  questions  as 
to  the  cause,  the  manner,  and  time  of  her 
death,  Nathan  asked  for  silence,  and  re- 
lated the  particulars.  His  own  daughter 
Emily  had  been  taken  sick — was  even  con- 
sidered ao  dangerously  ill.  Kmily,  as  they 
all  knew,  was  a  great  favourite  with  Eddie 
— a  sisterly  affection  existed  between  them. 
';  When,  therefore,  my  daughter  was  at- 
tacked, I  went  yesterday  after  Edith,  as 
my  friend'Mayfield  will  recollect." 

"Certainly  i  do,"  interposed  the.  old  man, 
"I  know  you  came  after  her.  When  will 
she  return]  Did  you  say  your  daughter 
was  dead  V 

"  Not  mine,  my  friend,  but  yours.  Please 
do  not  interrupt  mewfor  I  am  hardly  able 
at  best  to  tell  the  sorrowful  st<>rv.  1  went 
after  Edith,  and  she  started  with  me  home. 
The  creeks,  as  you  all  know,  were  swollen 
with  the  late  rains,  and  Edilh,  you  also 
know,  was  fearless  and  frolicksome.  She 
was  some  distance  ahead  of  me  when  she 
came  to  Little  Alamance,  merrily  singicg 
and  calling  to  me  to  hastea  on.  The  foot- 
bridge, as  you  know,  has  no  railing,  and 
before  she  got  halfway  over  it,  her  head 
began  to  reel,  and  she  looked  round  to  me 
and  started  to  run  back.  I  hurried  towards 
her;  but  before  I  got  near  the  creek  she 
had  fallen  off  and  was  washed  down  the 
stream.  I  ran  down  the  creek,  but  saw 
her  rise  but  once — but  once — and  alter  that 
she  disappeared  entirely.  I  went  several 
miles  down  the  stream,  but  th^  only  trace 
of  her  I  found  was  this  handkerchief,  which 
had  caught  on  a  bush.  My  daughter — whom 
the  news  nearly  killed — desired  to  keep  the 
handkerchief  as  a  relic  of  her  dear  friend  ; 
but  I  thought  I  would  first  ask  permission 
of  Eddie's  parents." 

"  Give  me  the  handkerchief,"  cried  old 
Mayfield, 4i  I'll  strangle  your  daughter  with 
it!  A  pretty  story,  indeed,  that  my  Eddie 
is  drowned — that  water  can  put  out  her 
bright  eyes!  She's  just  in  fun— don't  cry 
Mr.  Glutson.  Why,  man,  you're  silly  !  I 
know  Eddie's  pranks  well,  and,  may  be,  I 
won't  give  her  a  round  lecture  for  scaring 
us  so.  I  know  the  place  well.  I  know- 
where  she's  hid,  the  little  baggage  ;  and 
then,  when  I  go  to  scold  her,  she'll  bounce 
into  my  lap,  throw  her  arms  round  my 
neck,  and  kiss  me  so  sweetly  that  1  can*!; 
say  a  word ....  Drowned,  did  you  say  ? 
Who's  drowned'?  let's  go  and  drag  the 
creek." 

The  creek  was  dragged  next  day  by 
some  of  the  neighbours,  and  the  body,  not 
of  Edith,  but  of  Isaiah  Mayfield.  was  found. 
The  old  man,  as  it  appeared  on  subseqUfcaH 
enquiry,  had  left  home  but  a  short  lime 
before  his  dead  body  was  found,  and  had, 


ALAMANCE. 


65 


doubtless,  thrown  himself  into  the  water 
where  he  supposed  his  daughter  to  be. 

The  story  of  Edith's  fate  spread  far  and 
wide,  and  even  in  those  glQomy  times  ex- 
cited a  new  and  universal  sorrow.  All 
now  recollected  her  be.auty  and  her  vir- 
tues, and  all  remembered  that  they  had 
predicted  her  early  death  because  she  was 
'  too  good  for  earth.  They  looked  on  her 
as  a  transient  visiter  from  above,  sent  here 
for  a  special  purpose — as  a  celestial  flower 
that  blossomed  for  a  moment  on  the  tree 
of  life,  to  give  the  world  a  glimpse  of  the 
original  purity  and  brightness  of  our  now 
fallen  and  corrupted  nature. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

WAR — ON   THE    EMBATTLED    FIELD. 

The  history  of  the  battle  of  Camden  is 
too  well  known  to  require  a  description 
from  us.  It  occurred  about  the  time  of  the 
events  related  in  the  last  few  chapters  ;  and 
while  it  reflects  shame  on  some,  it  covered 
with  glory  many  of  those  engaged  on  the 
American  side.  The  Virginia  and  the 
North  Carolina  militia,  as  is  well  known, 
fled  early  in  the  engagement ;  and  while 
General  Gates,  the  commander-in-chief, 
was  endeavouring  to  rally  them,  the  ven- 
erable De  Kalb,  at  the  head  of  the  conti- 
nentals, was  left  without  orders  and  nearly 
surrounded  by  overwhelming  numbers. 
These,  the  continentals,  preferring  death 
to  retreat,  stood  their  ground  against  fear- 
ful odds,  and  maintained  the  fierce  conflict 
until  the  fall  of  their  gallant  leader,  and 
until  every  corps  was  broken.  We  ex- 
tract the  following  account  of  part  of  the 
engagement  from  the  journal  of  M'Bride  : 
"When  the  militia  fled,  our  captain  (Cor- 
nelius Demijohn)  made  a  desperate  but 
vam  effort  to  rally  his  company,  threaten- 
ing all  sorts  of  punishments,  and  promising 
the  most  extravagant  rewards.  He  got 
himself  well-nigh  out  of  breath  with  swear- 
ing and  with  running  to  and  fro ;  and  a*fter 
all  his  ado,  he  was  able  only  to  retain  those 
of  us  who  were  from  Alamance,  and  who 
numbered  eight,  including  the  captain. 
Our  commander,  who  was  sweating  and 
■  panting  prodigiously,  from  his  efforts,  now 
drew  out  the  little  bottle  which, he  always 
carried  about  him,  and  offered  us  a  drink. 
A  few  of  "the  men  helped  themselves  to  a 
small  draught,  after  which  our  captain  took 
a  long  and  affectionate  embrace,  and,  with 
a  thundering  shout,  led  us  into  the  middle 
of  the  fight.  It  seemed  to  me  that  all  en- 
gaged looked  upon  their  own  fate,  and  that 
of  the  Anierican  cause,  as  sealed,  and  so 
they  were  determined  to  sell  their  lives  as 
dear  as  possible,  and  to  build  a  monument 
-of  dead  Englishmen  over  their  own  graves. 
Bidding  adieu  to  time  and  its  vanities,  we 
set  ourselves  to  work  with  the  stern  cour- 
E 


age  of  desperation ;  and  I  saw  many  refus- 
ing to  surrender  or  ask  for  quarter  after 
they  had  fallen,  covered  with  wounds,  but 
on  their  knees  and  on  their  backs  still 
fought  as  long  as  they  could  raise  an  arm. 
Several  times  I  was  covered  with  brains, 
scattered  from  the  heads  of  those  near  by 
me,  and  the  ground  became  so  slippery 
with  blood  we  could  hardly  keep  our  feet. 
I  trod  upon  the  shattered  skulls  of  friends 
and  foes,  and  several  times  stumbled  and 
fell  over  heaps  of  gory  and  mangled  bodies. 
Sometimes  I  saw  an  arm  taken  off,  or  a 
leg  shivered,  and  heard  the  poor  creature 
scream  with  pain,  but  none  attended  to  his 
calls;  and  often,  when  our. nearest  and 
best  friends  would  fall,  and  plead  for  help 
in  the  name  of  ancient  friendship,  we  wbuld 
have  to  leave  them  to  their  fate,  not  even 
having  time  to  cool  their  parched  lips  with 
water.  Never  shall  I  forget  that  horrid 
comminglement  of  sounds,  where,  amid 
the  perpetual  roll  of  firearms  and  the  din 
and  clash  of  swords,  were  heard  oaths  and 
prayers,  screams,  groans,  and  pitiful  en- 
treaties— some  cursing  their  Maker,  and 
some  uttering,  with  feeble  voices,  the 
names  of  their  mothers,  wives,  and  chil- 
dren !  At  length  our  noble  leader,  the 
Baron  de  Kalb,  fell,  with  a  crash  like  a 
mighty  oak  beneath  the  repeated  strokes 
of  his  adversaries  ;  and,  being  scattered 
about,  the  field,  the  Americans  sought  safe- 
ty, every  man  for  himself.  Our  captain 
and  myself  had  kept  our  eyes  on  Major 
Warden,  who  was  ever  in  the  thickest  of 
the  fight,  and  who  was  by  the  side  of  his 
gallant  general  when  the  latter  fell.  Never 
did  1  see,  in  one  so  young,  such  cool  cour- 
age, such  a  knightly  bearing.  Early  in  the 
action  he  threw  the  scabbard  of  his  sword 
away,  and  several  times  he  sought  out  and 
was  engaged,  hand  to  hand,  with  British 
officers,  more  than  one  of  whom  he  van- 
quished. When  the  old  baron  fell,  young 
Warden  rushed  among  the  foe,  who  form- 
ed a  ring  around  him,  and  were  giving  him 
wound  after  wound,  he  still  refusing  to 
surrender.  It  was  a  critical  period  with 
our  young  friend  ;  and  Captain  Demijohn, 
blowing  like  a  chafed  rhinoceros,  and 
glowing  like  a  ball  of  fire,  rushed  in  with 
his  Alamancers,  who,  hewing  their  way 
through  the  serried  ranks  of  the  adversary, 
caught  the  major  as  he  was  falling,  and 
carried  him  safely  beyond  the  reach  of 
danger." 

When  the  Alamancers,  as  M'Bride  re- 
lates, carried- Warden  off  the  field,  they 
found  him  to  be  in  a  state  of  insensibility, 
from  exhaustion  and  the  loss  of  blood.  No 
time,  however,  was  to  be  lost,  and  after 
stanching  his  wounds,  they  hastily  con- 
structed a  hand-litter,  and,  placing  him  in 
it,  fled  as  rapidly  as  they  could  till  dark- 
ness overtook  them.  They  were  now  a- 
the  house  of  a  poor  widow  woman,  friend- 


66 


ALAMANCE. 


ly  to  the  cause,  and  who  joyfully  relieved 
all  their  wants.  Henry  Warden  was  placed 
on  the  best  bed  in  the  house,  and,  falling 
into  a  refreshing  sleep,  he  remained  uncon- 
scious until  near  the  break  of  day.'  He 
awoke  at  last  much  bewildered,  and  for  a 
moment  imagined  that  he  was  in  his  tent 
in  the  army.  »At  length,  recollecting  the 
scenes  of  the  preceding  day,  and  being  un- 
able to  account  for  his  present  position,  he 
called  out  to  know  if  any  one  was  near  him. 

"  Certainly,  ujajor,  certainly,"  answered 
a  hoarse  voice  ;  "  I'm  here,  and  other  good 
friends  besides." 

"  And  who  are  you  ?"  enquired  Warden  ; 
"  I  cannot  see  you ;  but  it  seems  to  me  I 
ought  to  know  your  voice." 

"  See  me  !  no,  certainly,  you  can't ;  you 
could  hardly  see  a  candie  this  dark  niglit, 
pr,  what  is  brighter,  the  eyes  of  this  fair 
lady.  As  to  my  voice,  you  ought  to  know 
it — to  be  sure  you  ought,  if  I  had  not 
spoiled  the  finest  one  in  all  the  country  in 
cursing  George  the  Third,  d n  him  !" 

"But  who  are  you?"  again  asked  War- 
den. 

"Demijohn,  Cornelius  Demijohn, captain 
af  militia  in " 

"  Uncle  Corny  i"  exclaimed  Warden,  en- 
deavouring to  rise  ;  "  am  I  dreaming,  or  is 
it  really  you1?  I  thought  I  saw  you  yes- 
terday." 

"  To  be  sure  you  did,"  said  Demijohn, 
giving  his  hand  to  Warden — "  to  be  sure 
you  saw  me — that  is,  I  saw  you ;  but  it  was 
no  time  for  friends  to  pass  compliments, 
major." 

"It  was  not,  indeed,  Uncle  Corny;  but 
why  do  you  call  me  major]  Such  cere- 
mony between  old  friends,  who  have  been 
long  parted,  is  foolish.  Call  me  as  you 
used  to  do,  and  sit  down  here,  and  tell  me 
all  about  Alamance.  When  did  you  leave 
there  1  how  is  my  father's  family,  and 
Hector  M'Bride  ?  Tell  me  every  thing  that 
has  occurred." 

"  Not  now,  not  now,"  answered  the  cap- 
tain ;  "  you  must  sleep — to  be  sure  you 
must.  This  good  lady  thinks  so,  and  I 
think  so  too.  To-morrow  morning  I  will 
— that  is  to  say,  Hector  M'Bride  will  tell 
you  every  thing." 

"Is  he  here,  the  master  here?"  ex- 
claimed Warden,  again  trying  to  rise  ;  "  is 
Hector  M'Bride  here  ]  Bring  him  to  me 
this  instant.  Where  is  he]  1  must  see 
him  immediately — for  all  the  opiates  in 
the  world  could  not  make  me  sleep  now. 
Bring  him  in,  Uncle  Corny  !" 

"  Well,  well,"  said  the  latter,  "  you  must. 
be  obeyed  ;  you  are  my  superior  in  rank — 
to  be  sure  you  are — and  the  rules  of  war 
give  you  command.  Old  Hector  is  asleep 
now,"  continued  he, as  he  went  out,  "and 
dreaming  that  he's  whipping  a  boy  in  the 
erhool  of  Alamance;  but  I'll  wake  him  if  I 
have  to  fire  a  ten-pounder  over  his  head." 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

RETROSPECTIONS. 

Early  in  the  morning  the  conversation 
of  the  master  and  his  former  scholar  was 
interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  the  other 
Alamancers,  led  in  by  Captain  Demijohn 
with  military  order  and  precision.  The 
captain's  men,  however,  broke  ranks  as 
soon  as  they  saw  their  old  friend  and  play- 
mate, whom  they  affectionately  embraced. 
Warden  and  his  friends  gazed  on  each 
other  with  kind  curiosity,  and,  though  time 
had  wrought  its  usual  changes  in  the  faces 
of  all,  each  heart  was  as  warm,  as  true,  as 
generous,  and  as  simple,  as  when  they  had 
played  their  last  grand  game  of  tow; 
Henry  Warden,  who  had  long  been  ia  the 
service,  and  who  had  not  for  some  time 
past  had  an  opportunity  of  visiting  home, 
related  the  chief  particulars  of  his  career  as 
a  soldier,  with  which  dry  details  of  marches 
and  of  battles  we  will  not  trouble  the  read- 
er. Suffice  it  to  say  that,  in  answer  to  their 
frequent  questions,  he  alluded  modestly  to 
his  own  standing  in  the  army  among  of- 
ficers and  men  ;  told  how  and  why-he  had 
been  promoted,  and  satisfied  their  curiosity 
by  exhibiting  high  testimonials  for  probity, 
courage,  and  conduct  from  the  first  officers 
in  the  service  of  the  United  States.  As  to 
the  previous  adventures  of  the  master  and 
of  Demijohn,  it  is  our  purpose  to.  say  but 
little.  The  latter  had  enlisted  for  short  pe- 
riods several  times,  while  the  former  had 
served  as  a  volunteer  in  various  places, 
going  wherever  lie  thought  he  could  be 
most  useful.  When  Gates  marched  '  i  the 
South,  Demijohn  raised  a  company  and 
received  the  commission  of  captain  in  the 
militia.  He  and  his  men  had  joined  the 
main  army  just  before  the  battle  of  Cam- 
d'fen,  and  Warden,  who,  till  the  engagement, 
had  been  detailed  on  duty  in  the  surround- 
ing country,  had  not  an  opportunity  o  free- 
ing his  friends  till  after  the  battle.  Imme- 
diately after  sunrise  the  party  were  again 
enj-oute,  aiming  for  the  mountains  of  North 
Carolina,  the  militia  captain  remaining 
some  time  with  the  widow  to  enquire  mi- 
nutely about  the  roads.  Her  information 
must  have  been  very  confused  and  contra- 
dictory, for  Corny  was  perpetually  at  a 
loss.  That  good  knight  had  ever  been  of 
a  grave  and  taciturn  humour,  while  the 
martial  air  of  his  step,  the  erect  posture 
of  his  head,  and  the  upward  and  stiff  pro- 
jection of  his  full  red  face  caused  by  the 
immense  breadth  of  his  girdle,  added  much 
to  the  solemnity  and  dignity  of  his  pres- 
ence. He  spoke  but  seldom,  and  seldom 
laughed ;  but,  when  he  did  give,  way,  no 
premonitory  smile  played  along  and  re- 
laxed his  features,  which  would  suddenly 
convulse  with  cachinatory  thunder  and 
then  as  suddenly  collapse  into  their  stern 
rigidity.    He  w^ct  now  even  more  than 


LAMANCE. 


67 


tisually  silent,  breathed  harder  than  com- 
mon, and  listened  to  the  conversation  of 
his  friends  with  a  vacant  stare.  His  situ- 
ation excited  much  speculation  in  the 
master,  who  was  curious  about  such  things, 
and  who  concluded  that  one  of  the  arrows 
of  the  Little  Archer  had  at  length  pierced 
through  his  seven  fingers  of  lard  and 
touched  his  heart. 

At  night  the  Alamanccrs  had  the  good 
•fortune  of  finding  comfortable  quarters  at 
the  house  of  a  Whig,  and  M'JBride  and 
Warden,  being  put  in  a  room  to  themselves, 
had  an  opportunity  of  conversing  on  sub- 
jects in  regard  to  which  each  was  anxious 
to  speak.    . 

"  Now,"  said  Warden,  "  when  they  were 
alone,  "  tell  me  all  about  Edith  Mayfield." 

"  Ah,  my  friend,"  replied  the  master,  "  I 
gee  the  embers  are  yet  burning — the  veteris 
vestigia  flammce  still  remain.  1  thought  you 
had  forgotten  that  unhappy  passion."' 

Warden. — "I  have  tried,  but  I  cannot. 
Indeed,  when  I  forget  that,  I  shall  forget 
the  happiest  as  well  as  the  bitterest  portion 
of  my  life.  But,  come,  tell  how  Edith  is. 
How  does  she  look'?  Who  is  courting 
her  1  Where  is  Ross  ?  What  does  she  say 
of  me  ?" 

M'Bride. — "A  genuine  lover!  forty  ques- 
tions in  a  breath!  Well,  to  make  a  long 
story  short,  Edith  has  grown  to  be  a  full, 
ripe  woman,  and  is  as  beautiful  as  an  angel. 
I  have  at  times  taught  privately  in  her  and 
your  father's  families,  and  I  found  that  Ed- 
die and  your  sister \Kate  were  sworn  sis- 
ters, always  together.  It  is  said  that  she 
is  subject  to  fits  of  melancholy,  but  when 
I  was  with  her  she  was  always  apparently, 
happy,  siugJ£2Lhkj3_a  nightingaleajjdlaugh- 
ing  like. a  siren.  FcoTrltr" "never  hear  her 
speak  muclt~oT*you,  but  she  always-  man- 
aged to  know  when  your  mother  heard 
from  the  army,  and  would  go  over  to  get 
the  news.  As  to  Ross,  he  haunts  still  about 
Alamance,  and  is  often  at  Glutson's,  though 
secretly.  He  sees  Edith  frequently,  I 
doubt  not,  and  I  am  inclined  to  believe  she 
has  often  refused  him.  What  will  be  the 
end  of  it  no  one  can  tell ;  for  you  may  as 
well  undertake  to  predict  from  what  point 
the  wind  will  blow  this  day  sixty  years 
hence  as  to  cast  the  horoscope  of  a  woman's 
mind  for  four-and-twenty  hours.  Glutson, 
by  the  way,  is  a  villain,  and  I  hope  yet  to 
see  him  hanged.  He  keeps  smooth  with 
the  Whigs,  but  he  is  too  much  respected 
by  the  Tories.  Strange  stories  are  whis- 
pered about  in  regard  to  father  and  son; 
and  if  one  half  of  them  be  true,  the  world 
never  saw  two  more  finished  scoundrels." 

Warden. — "  But  as  to  Mayfield  :  what 
thinks  he  of  me  now  1" 

The  Master. — "  What  does  the  owl  think, 
as  he  sits  perched  on  a  tree,  gazing  with 
wisely-solemn  looks  upon  the  moon  and 
stars]     Nobody  can  divine  old  Mayfield's 


thoughts ;  and  if  he  knows  them  himself, 
I'm  much  mistaken.  At  ordinary  times, 
and  among  ordinary  people,  he  might  be 
thought  to  be  a  man  of  profound  policy ; 
but  the  breath  of  the  storm  agitates  his 
mind  so  that  a  child  can  see  the  muddy 
bottom  of  that  shallow  stream  he  thought 
so  deep.  He  is  a  miserable  imbecile,  the 
constant  prey  of  his  own  fears,  and  per, 
petually  seeking  by  stratagem  to  overcome 
the  shadows  of  his  own  diseased  imagina- 
tion. The  Tories  laugh  at  him  and  levy 
black  mail  from  him  ;  the  Whigs  pity  and 
despise  him.  He  has  got  to  be  so  timid, 
so  wary,  and  so  non-committal,  that  he 
will  not  give  you  a  direct  opinion  on  the 
weather,  and  instructs  negroes  about  their 
daily  work  as  if  in  the  character  of  ambas- 
sador he  was  negotiating  a  treaty  of  peace 
between  Great  Britain  and  the  United 
States.  He  speaks  of  you,  of  course  ;  he 
speaks  respectfully,  and  even  kindly,  but 
what  does  he  think'?  You  will  be  taxing 
your  brain  to  a  poor  purpose  to  know. 
You  ought  patiently  to  await  the  course  of 
things  ;  and  if  Edith  ever  loved  you,  and  is 
worth  having,  you  will  get  her  yet.  But 
you  ought  not  to  love  her :  discard  that  feel- 
ing from  your  heart." 

Warden. — "  If  you  had  said  from  my 
breast,  then,  with  loss  of  life,, it  had  been 
possible ;  as  for  my  heart,  it  and  Edith 
can  never  be  divided.  I  will  speak  to  you 
candidly  and,  I  trust,  with  some  show  of 
reason.  When  I  first  listened  to  your  ad- 
vice about  love  I  was  young,  ardent,  and 
inexperienced.  1  embraced  with  zeal  the 
cause  of  my  country  ;  patriotism  was  my 
mistress,  and  she  I  expected  forever  to 
absorb  my  soul.  I  was  mistaken — you 
were  mistaken.  I  love  my  country  as 
much  as  any  one  can ;  I  am  devoted  to 
liberty,  and  have  shown  my  attachment 
by  more  than  words.  Yet,  in  all  employ- 
ments— on  the  long  and  painful  march — in 
the  duties  of  the  camp — in  the  very  rush 
of  battle,  and  in  the  hour  of  victory  and 
defeat,  my  thoughts  were  not  fully  occu- 
pied with  what  was  around  me :  my  mind 
would  turn  to  Edith  Mayfield.  Selfishness 
is  the  great  spring  of  action  in  us  all,  for 
we  are  all  seeking  our  own  happiness. 
The  miser  finds  it  in  piling  up  heaps  of 
gold ;  the  ambitious  in  the  momentary  ap- 
plause of  the  changeful  multitude  ;  the 
vindictive  in  scenes  of  blood  and  wretch- 
edness, and  the  good  and  intellectual  in 
the  exercise  of  the  affections.  I  long  as 
much  as  you  to  see  a  republic  established, 
and  when  it  is  established  I  wish  to  be  a 
happy  citizen  under  it,  loving  and  being 
loved.  You  recollect  what  is  said  in 
Cicero  de  Amicitia." v 

The  Master. — "  I  agree  with  you  in  your 
principles,  but  not  in  their  application.  We 
all  seek  happiness ;  and  cannot  a  refined 
nature  find  it  in  the  cultivation  of  letters, 


ALAMANCE. 


the  pursuits  of  philosophy,  and  in  the  con- 
sciousness of  being  a  benefactor  of  his 
kind  ■?  I  tell  you  that  though  we  all  seek 
happiness,  some  of  us  do  not  expect  to 
find  it  here.  There  are  martyrs  to  princi- 
ple—men who,  from  a  sublime  conception 
of  their  duties  look, 

'  Beyond  this  visible  diurnal  sphere' 

for  the  reward  of  their  deeds,  at  leasi-be- 
yond  the  period  of  their  own  livesi  What 
rewards  temporal  seek  I?  What  rewards 
seeks  Lafayette  1  What  ones  did  that 
venerable  leader  seek,  who  yesterday  of- 
fered himself  a  sacrifice  for  liberty  ?  Oh, 
how  my  heart  swelled  within  me  as  I  saw 
that  noble  and  stalwart  form  towering  in 
the  thickest  of  the  fight,  and  heard  his 
clarion  voice  cheering  on  his  followers  to 
deeds  that  must  live  while  valour  has  a 
name  !  Even  in  the  hottest  of  the  strife  I 
wept  like  a  child  as  I  saw  him  with  his 
white  hairs  streaming  in  the  wind,  yield 
.  at  last  to  the  blows  that  fell  upon  him  like 
winter  hail,  and  fall  with  his  face  to  the 
foe  !  There,  on  that  ensanguined  field, 
far  from  the  home  of  his  youth  and  the 
graves  of  his  kindred — there,  in  the  cause 
of  strangers,  and  at  the  head  of  a  forlorn 
hope,  in  a  green  old  age,  fell  one  who  had 
dwelt  in  palaces,  who  was  himself  the  mir- 
ror of  knighthood,  the  flower  of  modern 
chivalry  !  And  was  he  not  happy  !  The 
consciousness  that  we  are  acting  a  noble 
part,  even  in  tragedy,  is  the  very  ecstasy 
of  happiness ;  and  that  old  hero,  when  he 
fell  in  his  martial  harness  felt  a  proud 
swelling  of  his  soul  within  him,  and  his 
fading  eyes  beamed  with  unearthly  light. 
for  he  knew  that  he  was  performing,  be- 
fore the  world  and  before  posterity,  the 
last  great  act  in  a  glorious  drama,  and  that 
his  memory  would  live  fresh  and  green  in 
the  hearts  of  the  brave  and  free  forever! 
If  you  must  love — if  you  must  sympathize 
with  kindred  spirits — hold  communion  with 
the  mighty  ones  of  the  past  and  present. 
Sympathize  with  them  in  their  great,  he- 
roic, and  magnanimous  thoughts ;  walk 
with  them  over  the  flowery  and  seques- 
tered vales  of  poetry,  or  soar  through  the, 
boundless  universe,  and  explore  the  arcana 
of  nature,  the  causes  of  things.  Do  not 
waste  your  most  precious  thoughts  on  a 
creature  whose  highest  ambition  is  to  have 
the  finest  equipage,  and  who  is  more  im- 
pressed by  the  colour  of  your  coat,  the 
curve  of  your  leg,  and  the  cut  of  your 
whiskers,  than  by  the  beauties  of  your 
mind  and  the  wealth  of  your  heart.  Take 
notice,  I  do  not  charge  Edith  as  being 
worse  in  this  respect  than  others  :  she 
may  not  be  as  bad,  though  it  is  no  recom- 
mendation that  she  is  the  daughter  of  one 
who  is  a  Machiavel  on  trifles  and  a  palterer 
and  piddler  on  important  matters.  As  to 
y-ur  quotation  from  Cicero,  that  was  in- 


tended to  apply  more  to  friendship  than  to> 
love,  of  which,  in  its  purity,  as  I  opine,  the 
old  Roman  knew  but  little.  Besides,  it  is 
met  by  one  from  a  man  equally  greaw 
Lord  Bacon  says  that  '  great  minus  and 
great  occasions  do  keep  out  this  weak 
passion;'  and  farther,  'that  love  is  "more 
beholden  to  the  stage  than  to  real  life,'  as 
in  the  former  it  appears  both  in  tragedy" 
and  comedy,  while  in  the  latter  it  acts 
only  in  tragedy.  There  is  a  volume  in 
this  sentence,  and  I  commend  it  to  your 
serious  consideration." 

Warden. — "  As  you  are  in  the  mood  for 
quotations,  I  will  give  you  one  from  the 
highest  of  all  authorities.  '  It  is  not 
for  man  to  be  alone,'  was  said  by  the  Cre- 
ator, who  made  him  to  love.  It  is  a  fixed 
law  of  our  being,  and  we  must  obey  it. 
Some  there  are — you  may  be  one  whose 
affections  are  blighted  for  wise  purposes. 
In  this  way  God  prepares  instruments  to 
work  out  his  ends  ;  and  when  I  see  i 
whose  love  has  been  turned  to  bitterness, 
I  regard  them  as  branded  like  Cain  for 
some  early  sin,  or  as  the  high  priests,  the 
sanctified  vessels  of  Deity,  consecrated  by 
him  for  some  special  use.  But  let  us  turn 
the  subject,  for,  I  love  Edith  so  well,  and 
you  dislike  the  sex  so  much,  something 
offensive  may  be  said." 

"  Agreed,"  said  the  master,  "  and  to 
sharpen  our  wits  as  well  as  refresh  our 
bodies,  Ijnove  we_take  a^hoxt-exciusion 
to  the  land  of  Nod.*'  ~ 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

A   "  MOUNTAIN    HOME"    IN   NORTH    CAROLINA.. 

On  the  next  morning,  at  early  light,  the 
Alamancers  were  again  on  the  road,  War- 
den, whose  wounds  were  not  dangerous, 
being  now  able  to  ride  the  horse  brought 
on  for  his  use.  The  others  were  on  foot ; 
and  Captain  Demijohn,  returning  to  a  sense 
of  his  duties,  enforced  a  rigorous  discipline 
and  manoeuvred  his  men  over  broken 
ground, ,  through  cornfields  and  swamps, 
and  eluded  the  foe,  who  were  scouring 
the  country,  with  consummate  skill  and 
ability.  The  march,  however,  though  .!ls- 
playing  great  military  capacity  and  emi- 
nent strategic  power,  will  hardly  justify 
the  parallel  which  the  master  insinu;  tes 
might  be  drawn  between  it  and  the. retreat 
of  the  immortal  ten  thousand  from  the 
plains  of  Cunaxa ;  and  though  the  re:,  n 
of  his  memoirs  might  find  a  Xenophon  in 
M'Bride,  he  would  scarcely  recognize  a 
Clearchus  or  even  a  Proxenus  in  the  bulky 
captain  of  militia.  There  is,  nevertheless, 
some  analogy  between  the  feelings  of  the 
Greeks  when  the  joyful  cry  of,  "  The  seal 
the  sea!"  burst  through  their  ranks  and 
those  of  Uncle  Corny's  men,  as  they  be- 
held the  blue  summits  of  the  distant  mount- 


ALAMANCE. 


€9 


ains.  Our  travellers  were  soon  among 
them,  and  felt  awed  as  they  entered  what 
seemed  to  be  the  mighty  workshops  of  na- 
ture, where  her  terrible  energies  are  most 
conspicuous,  yet  most  noiseless.  Night 
found  them  in  these  solitudes,  still  clamber- 
ing over  mountains,  and  winding  along  de- 
files that  led  only  against  jutting  rocks  and 
overhanging  precipices.  Warden  being 
yet  too  feeble  to  sleep  in  the  sharp  mount- 
ain air,  the  Alamancers  continued  to  grope 
their  way,  some  of  them  leading  the  horse 
of  their  wounded  friend,  and  others  acting 
as  pioneers,  running  sometimes  against  a 
jutting  rock,  and  then  splashing  in  the 
water.  Captain  Demijohn,  accompanied 
by  his  faithful  lieutenant,  Hector  M'Bride, 
like  all  good  officers,  led  the  way;  and 
the  latter,  remarking  upon  the  mishaps  of 
the  two,  declares  that  they  concluded  be- 
tween themselves  they  would  be  devoutly 
thankful  if  the  morning  found  them  with 
one  whole  rib  a-piece.  As  for  the  master, 
his  falls  were  not  so  dangerous,  while 
those  of  Uncle  Corny  threatened  destruc- 
tion to  himself  and  all  who  wrere  in  his 
path.  On  one  occasion  particularly,  the 
captain,  losing  his  foothold,  went  clown  the 
side  of  a  steep  hill  with  a  crash  like  that 
of  a  landslide  or  mountain  avalanche,  scat- 
tering rocks  and  pebbles,  and  crackling 
over  brush  and  bushes,  till.he  landed  in  a 
creek.  As  he  rolled  along  with  an  in- 
creasing velocity,  starting  as  he  went  a 
huge  mass  of  stones  and  logs,  he  was 
heard  to  ejaculate,  with  broken  accents, 
"  Gi-gi-g-i-v-e  my  lo-love  to  the  wi-wid-id- 
id-0 Powell.  Ugh!"  His  accident,  which 
did  not  injure  him  seriously,  turned  out  to 
be  of  great  importance,  for  he  could  see 
far  down  the  narrow  gorge,  in  which  was 
the  faint  glimmer  of  lights.  He  and  his 
company,  following  the  creek  under  jut- 
ting rocks  and  between  steep  mountains 
that  seemed  to  have  been  split  from  each 
other  by  some  convulsion  of  nature,  emerg- 
ed at  last  into  a  broader  valley,  and  came 
to  a  very  neat  but  unostentatious  dwell- 
ing. There  were  five  or  six  negro  cabins 
scattered  about  the  yard,  and,  as  far  as'the 
travellers  could  judge  in  the  dark,  the  ap- 
pearance of  things  indicated  very  comfort- 
able quarters.  Demijohn,  who  observed 
all  the  rules  of  war,  ordered  M'Bride, 
with  a  white  flag,  to  hold  a  conference 
with  the  commandant  of  the  post;  in  other 
words,  to  approach  the  place  in  a  pacific 
manner,  and  ascertain  the  disposition  of 
the  owner,  and  the  state  of  things  within. 
The  master  was  met  at  the  door  by  an  old 
man,  who  enquired  his  business  there  at 
that  !ate  hour  of  the  night. 

""We  are  belated  travellers,"  answered 
M'Bride,  "and  have  with  us  a  sick  friend 
who  cannot  sleep  in  the  open  air.  "We  ask 
only  a  bed  and  shelter  for  the  sick,  prov- 
ender for  his  horse,  and  food  for  ourselves, 


for  all  of  which  we  will  pay  you  a  fair 
equivalent.  As  to  our  politics,"  continued 
he,  with  his  usual  frankness,  "  we  are 
Whigs ;  but  we'll  disturb  no  one  provided 
we  are  not.  attacked  ourselves." 

"  Wounded,  lost,  and  belated,"  said  the 
old  man,  "is  enough  to  say  to  me,  al- 
though it  is  not  my  business  to  entertain 
strangers,  and  there  is  a  tavern-house  a 
few  miles  distant.  You  have  a  further 
claim  on  me  in  being  Whigs,  and  my  roof 
and  board  are  at  your  service  as  long  as 
you  are  desirous  of  staying.  Where  is  your 
sick  friend,  and  where  are  your  horses  V 

"  The  wounded  officer  and  our  only 
horse  are  at  the  gate,  as  are  also  the  rest 
of  the  company." 

"  Bring  them  all  in,  while  I  give  some 
orders  about  the  horse." 

The  master  reported  what  he  saw  and 
heard,  and  Demijohn,  with  fife  playing,  and 
colours  flying  (for  he  had  preserved  his 
company's  colours),  marched  his  men  into 
the  house  and  ordered  them  to  stack  their 
arms  in  a  corner  of  the  room.  He  then 
called  his  roll,  and  dismissed  his  men  for 
the  day,  the  whole  proceeding  annoying 
Warden  no  little,  and  exciting  an  immense 
sensation  on  the  premises.  The  Alaman- 
cers, seated  round  a  large  fire  in  a  small 
but  tidy  parlour,  cast  curious  glances 
round  the  room,  observing  that  the  furni- 
ture, though  not  rich,  indicated  that  they 
were  in  the  abode  of  thrifty  ease  and  in- 
telligence. There  was  a  book-case  filled 
with  books  and  pamphlets,  which  attracted 
the  attention  of  Warden  and  M'Bride,  and 
they  were  particularly  surprised  to  find  a 
well-thumbed  copy  of  "  Paradise  Lost" 
lying  on  the  candle-stand,  and  appearing  to 
have  been  recently,  and  hastily  laid  down. 
The  eyes  of  Demijohn  rested,  with  a  cheer- 
ful and  affectionate  expression,  on  an  old- 
fashioned  sideboard,  the  top  of  which  was 
well  garnished  with  glasses  and  decanters, 
while  his  companions  in  arms  listened, 
erectis  auribus,  to  the  creaking  of  smoke- 
house doors  and  the  cackle  of  hens  in 
trouble.  They  were  thus  occupied  when 
their  host  entered  and  fixed  the  gaze  of 
every  eye.  He  was  a  tall,  erect,  and  mus- 
cular man,  with  a  dignified  air  and  manner, 
a  broad,  high  forehead,  a  mild,  intelligent, 
and  kindly  eye,  and  a  face  expressive  o) 
great  serenity  of  temper  and  of  a  virtuou 
and  benevolent  heart.  His  head  was  a 
white  as  cotton,  and,  although  he  looke 
hale  and  hearty,  it  was  evident  that  he  ha 
touched  the  grand  climacteric  in  the  ag 
of  man,  the  three-score  years  and  ten. 
Such  a  host  could  not  be  long  a  stranger 
to  such  guests  as  his  were,  and,  on  mak- 
ing known  his  name,  which  was  Abraham 
Neal,  he  was  introduced  by  M'Bride  to 
each  of  his  friends,  and  informed  of  their 
business,  their  place  of  residence,  and  the 
rank  and  title  of  each. 


70 


ALAMANCE. 


"  After  supper,"  said  Neal,  "  I  will  get 
you  to  relate  the  particulars  of  that  unhap- 
py battle  to  my  family.  It  was  a  sad  blow 
to  our  cause,  and  I  had  heard  rumours  of 
it  before — but,  bless  me !  I  had  nearly  for- 
gotten the  brandy.  Here,  Peggy,  bring 
me  the  keys !" 

At  these  words  there  came  bustling  out 
from  an  adjoining  room  a  little  prim  old 
lady,  with  a  basket  of  keys  on  her  arm,  a 
very  white  cap  on  her  head,  and  a  very 
kind  smile  playing  on  her  once  handsome 
but  diminutive  features. 

"  My  wife,"  said  Neal,  and  he  made  her 
acquainted  with  each  of  his  guests.  From 
the  sideboard  they  adjourned  to  the  supper- 
table,  where  Mrs.  Neal  presided,  showing 
by  her  looks  that  she  was  entirely  happy 
as  long  as  her  guests  continued  to  eat. 
When  the  company  were  again  seated 
by  the  parlour  fire,  there  glided  in  by  the 
side  of  Mrs.  Neal  another  member  of  the 
family. 

"  This  is  my  daughter  Lucy,"  said  the 
old  man,  rising  and  making  known  to  her 
the  names  of  his  new  friends,  on  each  of 
whom  she  shed  a  sunny  smile. 

"These  men,  daughter,"  continued  Neal, 
"  are  soldiers,  good  Whig  soldiers,  and  you 
will  now  have  an  opportunity  of  hearing 
of  battles  from  men  who  helped  to  fight 
them.  Mr.  M'Bride,  you  will  please  to  tell 
us  all  about  the  battle  of  Camden,  and  re- 
member that  we  are  country  folk,  and  want 
to  hear  all  the  littie  particulars,  such  as 
how  the  officers  looked  and  acted,  and  what 
they  said,  and  what  you  yourselves  did, 
and  how  you  felt,  and  how  the  battle  be- 
gan, and  how  it  ended." 

The  master,  in  no  way  loath  "  to  fight 
his  battles  o'er  again"  in  such  a  peaceful 
way,  gratified  his  hearers  with  a  long  and 
minute  detail,  spicing  his  narrative  with 
frequent  quotations  in  the  original  lan- 
guages, from  the  lives  of  Plutarch  and  his- 
tory of  Livy,  and  not  forgetting  the  valor- 
ous achievements  of  Corny  Demijohn  and 
the  gallantry  of  his  young  friend  Warden. 
This  latter  was  unable  to  pay  a  very  re- 
spectful attention  to  the  narrator,  being  en- 
tirely absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of 
Lucy  Neal,  and  the  thoughts  and  conjec- 
tures which  she  awakened.  She  sat  by  her 
mother  in  the  corner  opposite  to  Warden, 
and  so  near  the  candle  that  the  charms  of 
her  face  and  person  were  fully  developed. 
As  soon  as  she  was  seated,  Warden  caught 
her  eye,  and  the  look  of- each  indicated 
that  by  that  glance  they  became  better  ac- 
quainted. Warden  looked  again,  and  she 
looked  again,  each  gazing  longer  and  more 
familiarly  at  the  other,  and  becoming  more 
communicative  and  intimate  :  they  looked 
again,  and  they' were  old  and  confidential 
friends.  While  M'Bride,  therefore,  was 
entertaining  the  others,  Henry  Warden 
and  Lucy  Neal  were  silently  interchanging 


thoughts,  unfolding  their  minds  and  dis- 
closing their  hearts  to  each  other.  But 
when  the  master  touched  upon  that  part 
of  his  history  relating  particularly  to  he* 
new  acquaintance,  the  bright-eyed  girl  lost 
not  a  single  word,  and,  at  its  conclusion, 
glanced  upon  its  subject  a  look  full  of  sym- 
pathy and  admiration,  and  which  seemed 
to  say,  "  I  knew  you  were  such  a  man." 
The  old  people  now  pressed  Warden  for 
an  account  of  his  adventures  during  the 
war,  and  he,  yielding  to  their  kind  entreat- 
ies, sketched  briefly  the  most  prominent 
events  in  his  career.  Lucy  listened  in 
rapt  attention,  and  more  than  once  a  bright 
tear  glistened  in  her  eyes.  At  the  conclu- 
sion of  the  narrative,  a  hint,  given  in  no 
gentle  terms  from  the  nostrils  of  Demi- 
john, announced  that  the  hour  for  rest  had 
arrived.  The  host,  taking  the  hint,  began 
to  call  the  servants  and  give  orders'about 
the  quarters  of  his  guests ;  but  Corny,  in 
the  mean  time  awaking,  declared  that  it 
was  yet  quite  early. 

"  Never  mind,  my  good  friend,"  said  he,  ■ 
"  it  is  quite  early  yet.     My  fatigues  and 
my  supper  made  me  drowsy,  but  I'm  now 
wide  awake  and  would  be  glad  to  hear 
more  about  the  widow  Powell." 

A  burst  of  laughter  followed  this  speech, 
and  Corny,  rubbing  his  eyes,  seemed  much 
confused.  Neal,  informing  jiis  guests  that 
it  was  his  wont  to  hold  prayers  every 
night,  read  a  chapter  in  the  Bible,  and  then 
all  knelt  at  the  throne  of  grace.  When 
the  old  man  had  finished,  and  all  were 
again  on  their  feet,  the  huge  form  of  the 
miiitia  captain,  propped  against  the 'wall, 
was  still  bending  in  a  most  prayerful  pos- 
ture. Neal,  thinking  him  very  devout, 
would  not  permit  his  devotions  to  be  dis- 
turbed, until  he  began  to  mutter — 

"  It's  all  as  I  tell  you,  to  be  sure  it  is, 
my  duck,  my  dear  duck.  As  the  poet  says, 
you  shall  be  adorned  with  equity  and  made 
a  silver  queen." 

The  slumbering  knight  was  waked  from 
his  dream  of  love,  and  all  retired  to  their 
respective  places  of  rest,  Lucy  bidding 
Warden  good-night  with  a  manner,  and 
casting  on  him  a  look,  that  dwelt  in  his 
mind  like  the  parting  beams  of  the  setting 
sun,  for  some  time  after  he  was  in  b  .:'. 

CHAPTER  XXVI. 

ADVENTURES  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

M'Bride,  at  an  early  hour  next  morning, 
was  aroused  by  Captain  Demijohn,  and 
desired  to  walk  with  him  to  the  woods. 
After  the  friends  had  advanced  some  dis- 
tance from  the  house  in  silence,  the  mas- 
ter, curious  to  know  what  revelations  his 
companion  had  to  make,  intimated  that 
they  had  gone  far  enough. 

"Mr.  M:Bride,"  said  Uncle  Corny,  "I 
have  important  business  with  you.  and  it 


ALAMANCE. 


71 


must  be  secret — yes,  it  must  be  secret.  So 
please  to  walk  on." 

And  on  they  went,  the  master  much  con- 
cerned to  know  the  object  of  the  excur- 
sion, and  running  over  in  his  mind  the 
various  incidents  of  their  late  march. 
He  did  not  know  but  what  he  might  have 
offended  Corny,  whose  extremely  hard 
breathing,  solemnity  of  manner,  and  mys- 
terious looks  excited  some  apprehensions 
of  an  unpleasant  altercation.  They  were 
now  far  in  the  woods,  when  the  master 
again  suggested  that  it  was  time  to  return, 
as  breakfast  might  be  waiting.  Uncle 
Corny,  halting  suddenly,  gazed  seriously 
and  rather  sternly  in  the  face  of  his  friend 
for  at  least  a  minute,  and  then  remarked 
that  there  was  a  secret  recess  beneath  the 
cliff  before  them,  and  that  they  could  there 
do  their  business.  At  this  they  soon  ar- 
rived— a  deep  niche  in  the  side  of  a  mount- 
ain, and  which  was  overhung  by  huge 
rocks  and  darkened  by  the  foliage  of  trees 
and  a  web  of  luxuriant  and  tangled  vines. 

"  Now,"  said  the  captain,  with  a  tragical 
manner,  to  the  agitated  master,  "  now  we 
will  settle  the  affair.  I  wish  to  know  of 
you  what  you  think  of  the  widow  Powell." 

"  If  you  mean  the  good  woman  at  whose 
house  we  tarried  after  the  battle,"  answer- 
ed M'Bride,  "  I  think  her  handsome  and 
clever.  She  was  kind  to  us,  and  I  re- 
member her  with  gratitude." 

"/think  her  handsome  and  clever  too," 
resumed  Uncle  Corny ;  "  and  as  you  may 
have  observed — yes,  to  be  sure  you  did  ob- 
serve, that  I  was  pleased  with  her.  I  was 
— of  course  1  was,  and  if  any  man  has  any 
thing  to  say  against  her,  lie  must  fight 
Cornelius  Demijohn  ;  he  must,  by  Mars  !," 

"I'm  sure,  captain,"  answered  the  mas- 
ter, "  that  I  have  nothing  to  say  against 
her :  indeed,  I  profess  to  be  a  friend  of 
hers." 

"  You  profess  to  be !  What  are  you  in 
reality]" 

"  A  friend  ;  a  good,  true,  and  staunch 
friend." 

"Beware  how  you  speak,"  exclaimed 
Corny ;  "  tell  me  truly,  do  you  wish  her 
well]" 

"  With  all  my  heart." 

"Then,  sir,"  continued  Demijohn,  run- 
ning his  hand  in  his  pocket,  and  speaking 
with  a  husky  and  tremulous  voice,  "  then, 
sir,  I  wish  to  inform  you  that  1  have  brought 
you  here  to  show  you  this  lock  of  hair. 
It's  genuine,  sir;  I  cut  it  myself  from  her 
beautiful  head." 

"  Well,  Uncle  Corny,"  replied  M'Bride, 
much  relieved,  "  I  should  be  pleased  to 
know  what  object  you  have  in  showing  it 
to  me  ]" 

"To  be  sure  you  would  ;  that  is  very 
true,  I  know  you  would,  and  I'll  tell  you. 
Here  is  a^lock  of  mine — I've  picked  the 
gray  hairs  out— here's  a  lock  I  wish  you 


to  preserve.  I  did  not  think  to  give  it  to 
her  when  I  saw  her,  and  last  night  brought 
my  negligence  to  mind.  I  could  have  died 
satisfied  when  I  rolled  down  that  cursed  hill 
if  she  had  had  this  lock.  I  may  get  killed — 
you  understand — some  accident  may  hap- 
pen to  me ;  and,  if  it  does,  send  her  that 
relic." 

The  master  promising  faithful  obedience, 
and  receiving  many  injunctions  to  be  secret 
in  regard  to  the  sacred  treasure  given  by 
the  widow  to  Uncle  Corny,  the  two  friends 
returned  to  th^~HbUSe'"ahrrlc)und  breakfast 
waiting. 

The  captain  and  his  little  band  now- 
learned  with  pleasure  that  an  enterprise 
was  on  foot  in  the  mountains,  and  imme- 
diately determined  to  join  it.  A  guide  was 
procured,  after  breakfast,  who  was  to  con- 
duct them  to  the  rendezvous,  and  they  took 
an  affectionate  leave  of  Warden,  who  was 
to  remain  where  he  was,  and  of  Neal  and 
his  family. 

"  We'll  meet  again,"  said  the  master. 

"  1  hope  so,"  replied  Warden, "  and,  if  we 
do  not,  die  worthy  of  Alamance,  and  re- 
member my  heart  is  with  you." 

"Be  valiant,"  said  Neal,  "and  God  go 
with  you  and  prosper  you  !" 

At  length  the  adieus  were  all  spoken, 
the  parting  over,  and  the  Alamancers  on 
the  road.  Warden  stood  watching  them 
till  the  last  man  had  faded  from  his  sight, 
and  then  an  oppressive  sadness  came  over 
him.  His  recent  parting  from  the  friends 
of  his  youth  seemed  like  separating  him 
again  from  the  home  of  his  boyhood  :  he 
was  again  in  the  wide  world  and  far  from 
the  sweet  object  around  which  the  tendrils 
of  his  heart  had  grown  from  the  time  he 
was  a  child.  Left  by  his  discriminating 
friends  to  indulge  alone  his  tender  melan- 
choly, he  strolled  off  to  gaze  on  the  face 
of  Nature  and  "  chp.wthecnd  of  sweet  and^ 
j»itte£.  fcuicjk"  " — -—" "  ' 
" "The  house  of  Neal,  as  we  have  said,  was 
planted  in  a  valley,  a  green  and  level  nat- 
ural meadow  hemmed  in  on  each  side  by  a 
succession  oitridge  of  mountains.  Most 
of  these  rose  steep  and  precipitous  from 
the  plain,  their  bold  heads  shooting  straight 
up  from  the  vale  below,  and  like  two  rows 
of  hostile  Titans  sternly  and  proudly  con- 
fronting each  other  with  silent  and  awe- 
inspiring  gaze.  They  seemed  as  if,  in 
some  older  time,  two  armies  of  earth-born 
giants,  with  their  mightiest  men  in  front, 
had  marched  against  each  other  in  hostile 
array  until  the  foremost  r^nks  had  nearly 
met'in  terrible  collision,  when,  by  the  fiat 
of  Omnipotence,  they  were  instantly  ar- 
rested and  changed  to  earth,  there  to  stand 
forever,  their  huge  javelins  of  rock  still 
clinging  in  their  nerveless  grasp.  On  one 
side  of  the  plain  between  them  ran  a  creek 
some  twenty  yards  broad,  the  speckled 
trout  being  clearly  visible  as  they  glanced 


72 


ALAMANCE. 


through  the  silver  waters.  The  stream 
babbled  along  over  its  bed  of  pebbles,  its 
volume  being  constantly  increased  by  a 
succession  of  fountains  that  gushed,  bright 
and  rapid,  from  the  sides  and  bases  of  the 
mountains,  until,  within  a  short  distance 
from  its  source,  it  became  a  river.  War- 
den, with  the  feeling  of  one  imprisoned, 
was  glad  to  find  a  foot-bridge  over  this 
creek,  and  a  path  winding  from  it  up  a 
sloping  acclivity  until  it  reached  the  sum- 
mit of  the  ridge.  Following' this  path  and 
clambering  along  as  well  as  he  could  in  his 
enfeebled  state,  he  arrived,  by  a  tortuous 
route,  at  an  elevation  whence  he  could 
look  beyond  the  walls  of  his  castellated 
prison.  On  one  side,  as  far  as  the  eye 
could  see,  blue  peaks  on  peaks  arose  into 
mid  air,  varying  in  shape,  size,  and  colour, 
like  the  stupendous  domes,  minarets  and 
cupolas  of  an  endless  and  magnificent  city 
in  fairy-land,  or,  to  use  a  figure  perhaps 
more  appropriate,  like  the  vast  tents  of  a 
countless  host  of  genii,  while  the  mists  of 
the  morning  that  were  gathering  in  fleecy 
clouds  around  their  summits  might  be 
taken  for  the  banners,  streamers,  and  pen- 
nons of  the  chiefs.  On  the  other  side  these 
mighty  barriers  of  Nature  were  gradually 
dwarfed  till  they  dwindled  into  hills,  and 
finally  disappeared  in  the  illimitable  and 
undulating  plain  far  below.  The  forests 
were  clad  in  the  russet  and  yellow-tinted 
livery  of  early  autumn,  and  the  slanting 
rays  of  the  sun  lit  up  the  landscape  with  a 
thousand  different  hues,  the  distant  planta- 
tions gleaming  like  spangles  or  lustrous 
specks  in  the  wide  and  varied  scene. 

The  air  was  cool,  bracing,  and  elastic ; 
the  heavens  were  of  a  deep,  stainless,  and 
enchanting  blue ;  the  clouds  were  light, 
ethereal,  and  transparent.  Warden,  who 
had  an  eye  for  the  beautiful  and  grand,  and 
whose  jaded  constitution  began  to  feel  the 
influence  of  the  delightful  climate,  became 
animated  with  new  hopes,  fresher  feelings, 
and  brighter  fancies.  Inspired  by  the  maj- 
esty and  novelty  of  the  scenes  around 
him,  his  despondency  vanished,  and  his 
mind,  quickened  in  its  energies,  expanded 
with  great  and  teeming  thoughts  and  high 
resolves.  Still,  all  his  meditations  and  all 
his  purposes  would  connect  themselves 
with  Edith  Mayfield,  and  in  all  the  castles 
in  the  air  which  his  imagination  built  she 
was  the  irradiating  sun,  the  central  object 
of  attraction.  He  had  stood  some  time 
musing  in  a  rapt  mood,  and  was  just  be- 
ginning to  contemplate  the  dark  side  of 
the  picture  which  his  fancy  drew,  when 
he  was  startled  by  a  light,  step  behind  him. 
He  turned  and  met  the  gaze  of  Lucy  Neal, 
whom,  if  he  had  not  seen  her  before,  he 
might  well  have  taken  for  the  genius  of 
the  place,  the  blue-eyed  goddess  of  liberty. 
Her  large,  full  eyes  were  indeed  blue — 
blue,  soft,  and  serene  as  the  azure  skies 


above  them  ;  her  light-coloured,  loose  hair, 
scarcely  reaching  to  her  shoulders,  was 
parted  on  her  forehead  of  the  purest  white, 
and  thrown  back  so  as  to  expose  in  full 
relief  the  chaste  symmetry  of  a  small,  full 
face  that  looked  like  a  Grecian  model  chis- 
elled from  stainless  alabaster,  and  in  whose 
expression  were  blended  the  most  perfect 
and  artless  innocence,  tenderness,  and  in- 
telligence. A  small  foot  and  a  slender 
ankle  were  plainly  visible  beneath  a  sim- 
ple dress  that,  displayed  in  all  its  gracefully- 
rounded  proportions  a  form  that  was  the 
handiwork  of  Nature  only. 

When  Warden  saw  her  advancing  to- 
wards him  with  her  sun-bonnet  in  one  hnnd 
and  some  faded  flowers  in  the  other,  she 
seemed  not  the  least  confused,  and  was  the 
first  to  speak,  remarking,  with  a  smile  that 
sparkled  in  her  eyes,  that  she  had  found 
the  lost  sooner  than  she  expected. 

"And  what  lost  one  were  you  seeking, 
my  sweet  friend'?"  asked  Warden. 

"  Who  else  should  it  be,"  replied  the 
girl,  "but  the  stranger  who  was  so  silly 
as  to  stray  off  by  himself,  and  sick  at  that, 
among  these  mountains  1  You  are  the  very 
person  I  was  looking  for,  and  father  will 
call  me  a  witch  for  finding  you  so  soon. 
See,  I've  gathered  some  flowers  for  you ; 
but  they  have  all  been  nipped  by  the.  frost, 
though  they  are  very  sweet.  Shall  I  pin 
them  on  your  coatl" 

"  Certainly,"  answered  Warden,  "  and 
I'll  wear  them  there  in  memory  of  the 
giver  when  we  are  far  apart." 

"  Which  won't  be  soon,"  said  Lucy,  fast- 
ening the  flowers  to  the  collar  of^jiis  coat, 
and  looking  up  into  his  face  with  a  smile 
that  tempted  him  strongly  to  touch  his  lips 
to  hers.  But  he  was  not  yet,  in  the  fash- 
ionable sense  of  the  word,  a  gallant,  and 
though  sadder  and  wiser,  he  was  as  simple 
and  modest  as  the  trusting  child  of  Nature 
who  stood  by  his  side.  Thanking  her  with 
few  but  kind  and  sincere  expressions  for 
her  solicitude  in  his  behalf,  he  learned  from 
her  that  his  melancholy  in  the  morning  had 
not  been  unobserved,  and  that  as  he  was 
seen,  in  a  sad  and  abstracted  mood,  to 
ascend  the  mountains  alone,  fears  were 
entertained  that  in  his  feeble  state  he  might 
over-exert  himself,  or  meet  with  an  acci- 
dent among  the  precipices  which  lined  his 
path.  Lucy,  hearing  her  father  express 
such  fears,  had  at  once,  and  unattended, 
started  in  pursuit  of  the  wanderer. 

"Are  you  not  afraid,"  asked  Warden, 
"  to  be  alone  in  these  wilds  with  a  stran- 
ger and  a  soldier  like  me  1  You  are,  I 
fear,  too  unsuspecting  for  such  a  world  as 
this." 

"  Why  should  I  be  afraid  V)  replied  she ; 
"  I  know  you  are  not  a  bad  man,  like  somo 
I  have  read  of." 

"  And  how  do  you  know  it  1  I  am  a  total 
stranger  to  you." 


ALAMANCE. 


73* 


"  No,  you  are  not  a  stranger,"  she  an- 
swered quickly ;  "  I  know  you  as  well  as 
I  know  my  father." 

"  Know  me  !"  exclaimed  the  officer ; 
"  when  did  you  ever  see  or  hear  of  me 
before  V 

"  I  never  saw  you,  or  heard  of  you  either, 
till  last  night.  It  may  seem  curious  to 
you,  but  when  I  first  saw  you,  you  looked 
like  an  old  acquaintance  and  friend,  or 
brother,  I  had  known  all  my  life.  I  know 
from  your  looks  what  sort  of  a  man  you 
are." 

Warden,  much  impressed  by  her  lan- 
guage, replied, 

"  There  is  more  philosophy  in  your  lan- 
guage than  you  are  aware  of,  Lucy,  if  you 
will  allow  me  to  call  you  so." 
'    "Please   don't   call  me   by  any  other 
name,"  said  she,  interrupting  him. 

"  I  will  not,  and  I  am  proud  of  the  priv- 
ilege, for  I  despise  to  have  to  Miss  my  fe- 
male friends.  As  I  was  going  to  say,  you 
hardly  know  the  full  truth  of  your  words. 
The  face  is  the  best  index  to  character; 
and  on  it  our  Maker  has  stamped  our 
hearts.  We  may,  by  our  acts  and  by  our 
words,  create  false  impressions ;  our  births, 
fortunes,  and  positions  in  society  become 
identified,  in  the  mind  of  the  worldling, 
with  our  natures,  and  elevate  and  depress 
us  above  and  below  our  proper  level.  But 
children  and  intelligent  brutes,  on  whom 
our  positions  in  society  and  our  worldly 
means  have  no  influence,  read  in  our 
countenances  our  genuine  worth,  and  rank 
us  as  we  deserve.  Rank,  wealth  and  influ- 
ence are  unknown  to  them,  and  they  see 
the  true  heart  and  soul  beaming  in  the 
face — the  real  man  or  woman.  Thus  you 
have  seen  me  ;  thus,  too,  have  I  seen  you  ; 
and  I  feel  towards  you  as  if  I  had  known 
you  all  my  life.  We  were  friends  before 
we  had  spoken  a  word  to  each  other,  and 
such  let  us  ever  be,  reading  and  judging 
each  other  as  God  judges  us,  by  the  heart." 

Thus  conversing,  in  the  most  free  and 
confidential  manner,  and  on  various  sub- 
jects— men,  books,  and  society — they  re- 
turned to  the  house,  Lucy  pointing  out,  on 
the  way,  the  most  beautiful  and  interesting 
scenes  and  localities,  with  all  of  which  she 
connected  a  legend  ;  and  Warden  being 
astonished  and  delighted  at  finding  a  friend 
and  companion  so  simple  and  so  cultiva- 
ted, so  refined  in  sensibility,  so  rich  in  fan- 
cy, and  so  good  at  heart. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

LUCY    NEAL. 

The  character  of  Lucy  Neal  daily  and 
hoarly  developed  itself— daily  and  hourly 
exhibited  a  new  beauty  for  the  admiration 
of  Henry  Warden.  She  grew  constantly 
into  his  feelings,  and  her  society  and  con- 


versation became  indispensable  to  him—: 
at  least  while  he  was  away  from  home. 
There  were  a  truthfulness  and  simplicity 
in  all  her  words  and  actions  ;  an  original- 
ity, brightness,  and  innocence  in  all  her 
thoughts  that  struck  him  with  as  much  as- 
tonishment as  did  her  familiar  acquaint- 
ance with  the  old  English  classics,  her 
just  conception  of  things,  her  total  want 
of  deception,  and  her  entire  ignorance  of 
the  world.  Cradled  amid  scenes  of  the 
highest  beauty  and  grandeur,  and  nurtured 
at  the  breasts  of  Nature  herself,  she  was- 
the  pure  reflection  of  her  mother,  untainted 
by  the  gloss  of  art,  fair,  chaste,  and  tender 
as  the  first  blossoms  of  spring  that,  on  the 
untrodden  prairie,  or  by  the  rugged  mount- 
ain's side,  open  their  soft  bosoms  to  the 
light  dews  of  April. 

From  sunrise  till  late  at  night  she  and 
Warden  were  inseparable,  reading  to  each 
other,  visiting  together  caves,  and  springs, 
and  noted  places,  and  admiring  together 
the  shifting  scenery  of  the  country.  Can 
a  man  love  two  objects  at  once  ?  He  may 
at  least  love  one  and  revere  the  memory 
of  another.  llenry-Wa*de.n4  for  years  ac- 
customed to  think  on  Edith"~MjayJ|e,ld»  had 
come  to  regard  her  as  alancTjful  creation,  a 
consecrated  idea  throned  apart  among  the 
recollections  of  the  past.  He  never  for  a 
moment  forgot  her ;  but,  divested  now  of 
all  mortal  attributes,  and  existing  only  in 
memory,  she  coidd  no  more  fetter  his  af- 
fections than  an  angel  or  a  departed  spirit. 
Thus  the  sacredness  of  his  feelings  to- 
wards her  was  not  abated,  though  Lucy 
began  now  to  mingle  more  practically  with 
his  thoughts  and  his* plans  of  life.  Indeed, 
he  was  now  without  plans,  and  so  was  she  ; 
and,  knowing  only  that  they  were  happy, 
they  thought  not  of  the  future. 

Dreams  often  affect  us  more  powerfully 
than  waking  visions  :  and  one  night  War- 
den dreamed  of  Edith  Mayfield.  When  he 
awoke  he  loved  her  still,  and  she  shone 
with  a  fresher  lustre  in  his  imagination. 
He  concluded  that  he  would,  on  the  follow- 
ing day,  adopt  a  new  course  of  conduct  to- 
wards Lucy ;  but  when  he  met  her,  fresh 
and  beautiful  as  the  morning,  he  thought 
no  more  of  his  resolution  until  he  was 
again  on  his  couch.  His  moral  firmness 
was  great,  and  he  now  determined  at  all 
hazards  to  break  the  spell  that  bound  him 
to  the  mountains.  On  the  next  day  an 
opportunity  offered  to  test  the  feelings  of 
Lucy,  for  she  was  visited  by  Sally  Ewing, 
the  belle  of  the  mountains.  Miss  Sally 
seemed  at  once  to  take  a  fancy  for  War- 
den, and  he,  with  the  gallantry  of  his  na- 
ture, repaid  with  interest  her  attentions. 
She  remained  two  days  at  Neal's,  during 
which  time  the  young  Alamancer  assidu- 
ously cultivated  her  acquaintance,  and 
almost  turned  her  head  with  compliments 
and  verses  which  he  dedicated  to  her.  She 


74 


ALAMANCE. 


was  a  rosy,  lively,  giddy  young  woman, 
spoiled  by  the  addresses  of  many  suitors 
and  by  the  fond  caresses  of  her  parents,  for 
she  was  an  heiress.  She  became  pleased 
with  Warden,  talked  about  him  all  night  to 
Lucy,  and  was  perfectly  delighted  when  he 
accompanied  her  home.  She  had  an  only 
brother,  a  young  man  not  deficient  in  in- 
telligence and  manly  beauty,  but  spoiled  as 
much  as  herself,  and  regarded  by  all  the 
ladies  of  his  acquaintance  as  a  great  prize. 
Henry  Warden  had  often  heard  Lucy  speak 
of  the  great  family  of  the  Ewings,  and  he 
was  by  no  means  pleased  when  informed 
by  Sally  that  her  brother  Ned  and  Lucy 
had  been  dedicated  to  each  other  by  their 
respective  parents,  and  that  beyond  all 
doubt  they  would  some  day  be  married. 
It  was  of  no  consequence  to  him — so  rea- 
soned Henry  Warden  ;  and  yet  he  was  not 
extravagantly  rejoiced  when  he  found  that 
the  young  mountaineer,  compassionating 
his  lonely  situation,  proposed  to  go  with 
him  to  Neal's  and  spend  several  days. 
Miss  Sally  herself  had  a  hand  in  effecting 
this  arrangement,  and  received,  for  her 
kind  suggestion,  the  spoken  thanks  of  the 
person  intended  to  be  benefitted  and  his 
secret  dislike.  Accordingly  brother  Ned 
got  himself  ready,  and  looking  on  a  match 
between  his  sister  and  Warden  as  a  settled 
thing,  he  treated  the  latter  with  fraternal 
affection  and  confidence  ;  ran  over  his  his- 
tory on  the  road,  and  dwelt  voluminously 
on  his  exploits  in  hunting  foxes,  killing 
bears  arid  deer,  and  catching  racoons. 
Whenever  Warden  would  pause  to  gaze 
on  some  scene  of  surpassing  beauty,  bro- 
ther Ned  wouid  connect  the  place  with  a 
legend  of  the  chase,  for  which,  and  for 
which  only,  he  supposed  all  the  localities 
of  the  region  had  an  interest  for  his  friend. 
Arrived  at  Neal's,  they  were  both  received 
with  kindness  by  Lucy;  but  during  the  day 
she  exhibited  a  marked  preference  for  the 
new  comer,  and  listened  with  gratifying 
attention  to  his  disquisitions  on  dogs,  guns, 
horses,  and  wild  turkeys.  Henry  bore  all 
Lris  very  patiently,  at  first;  but  as  Lucy 
still  grew  fonder  to  the  other  and  colder  to 
him,  his  vexation  began  to  show  itself  in 
various  ways.  The  day  passed  off,  and 
that  night  the  Alamancer  found  that  he- 
was  jealous.  He  had  once  concluded  to 
leave  the  mountains  immediately,  for  as 
long  as  he  had  no  rival  in  the  esteem  of 
Lucy  he  was  fearful  of  the  consequences 
of  his  longer  stay ;  now  he  felt,  what  he 
had  not  felt  before,  a  desire  to  win  her  af- 
fection, a  dread  of  losing  her  friendship. 
But  he  had  not  time  for  much  reflection, 
for  brother  Ned  talked  incessantly  until 
both  Tell  asleep.  On  the  following  morn- 
ing Lucy  looked  not  so  well  as  usual,  and 
met  Warden  with  a  tenderness  in  her  man- 
ner which  he  was  not  in  a  mood  to  observe 
or  appreciate.    Desiring  to  commune  with 


himself,  he  walked  down  the  valley  to  a 
nook,  on  the  sunny  side  of  a  mountain,  ab- 
sorbed in  his  own  reflections.  He  did  not, 
however,  fail  to  observe  the  romantic 
character  of  the  place  where  he  sat ;  a 
place  that  seemed  to  have  been  formed  as 
a  bower  of  love  for  the  deities  of  the  wood. 
It  was  a  semicircular  chamber  or  alcove, 
cut  deep  in  the  base  of  the  mountain  and 
covered  over  with  small  trees,  whose 
boughs  were  woven  together  by  vines  of 
wild  honeysuckle ;  and  seats  of  turf,  and 
beds  of  flowers,  and  sweet  shrubs  were 
tastefully  arranged  over  the  area.  On  the 
front  side  stood  a  large  and  aged  maple, 
and  a  few  yards  off  was  a  spring  of  clear, 
pure  water  that  gushed  up  from  a  bed  of 
white  pebbles,  and  which  was  walled  in 
with  rock.  On  the  other  side  of  the  val- 
ley, and  not  far  off,  the  creek  before  men- 
tioned kept  up  its  perpetual  babble  ;  and  far 
up  and  down  its  course  the  eye  ranged 
along  a  narrow  green  valley,  on  each  side 
of  which  cliffs  of  rock  along  the  sides  of 
the  mountain  were  darkly  visible  among 
the  thick  foliage  above  which  they  rose, 
looking  like  the  turrets  and  towers  of  an- 
cient and  dilapidated  castles.  Warden  had 
often  lounged  in  the  place  before :  and  as 
he  now  sat,  reflecting  on  those  past  and 
happy  hours,  he  heard  the  rustle  of  a  dress 
behind  him,  and  the  next  instant  Lucy 
Neal  was  seated  by  his  side.  Laying  her 
small,  white  hand  in  his,  and  looking  up 
into  his  face  writh  the  most  affectionate 
and  tender  expression  beaming  in  her 
own,  she  exclaimed,  with  a  smile,  "  Now, 
Henry,  you  know  how  it  feels  !" 

"  I  am  doubtful  as  to  what  you  mean," 
said  Warden  ;  "  but,  if  I  am  right  in  my 
opinion,  you  make  me  happy  indeed.  I 
suppose — excuse  me  if  I  am  wrong — I  sup- 
pose you  have  been  paying  me  back  for 
my  attentions  to  the  celebrated  and  accom- 
plished Miss  Sally  Ewing.     Am  I  right?" 

Lucy  blushed  and  hung  her  head  for  a 
moment,  and  then  replied,  "  I  was  very 
unhappy,  and  1  ought  not  to  have  acted 
so." 

What  would  the  gallant  reader  have  done 
in  Warden's  situation  1  what  could  he  have 
done  1  Few.  perhaps,  who  'see  these  pages 
could  be  as  self-denying  as  the  Alamancer, 
whose  sense  of  his  responsible  and  deli- 
cate position  again  rushed  upon  him  with 
painful  force.  He  raised  her  head  to  his 
lips — he  kissed  it  over  and  over  again,  ex- 
claiming, "  May  God  bless  you  forever, 
my  dear,  clear  friend  !" 

He  committed  himself  no  farther;  but 
Lucy  was  happy,  entirely  so,  and  totally 
forgot  her  suitor,  who  was  impatiently 
awaiting  her  return  to  the. house.  War- 
den, however,  remembered  him  at  last, 
and  suggested  that  it  would  be  rudeness 
in  them  to  stay  away  longer  from  their 
guest. 


,.r 


ALAMANCE. 


75 


"  I  don't  care  if  it  is,"  said  his  compan- 
ion, "and  I  hope  he'll  never  visit  me  again. 
I  don't  want  to  see  him,  or  think  of  him 
any  more ;  for  if  I  do  I'll  hate  him,  and  that 
wonld  be  a  sin.  I  shall  never  hear  his 
name  again  without  being  unhappy." 

"It  should  not  be  so,"  answered  War- 
den; "  for  I'm  sure  that,  so  far  from  dislik- 
ing what  has  happened,  it  has  made  me 
happier  than  I  was.  I  should  never  think 
of  your  conduct  with  the  slightest  vexa- 
tion, or  condemn  you  in  the  least." 

"Won't  you,  in  fact?  Do  you  fully  for- 
give me  for  what  I  did  1  and  will  you  for- 
get it  all,  as  if  it  had  never  been?  Please 
tell  me  the  truth." 

"  This  is  the  seal  to  my  assertion,"  said 
Warden,  again  kissing  her  hand,  and  then 
holding  it  in  both  of  his.  "  As  I  hope  to 
be  saved,  I  declare  to  you  that  I  will  not 
and  cannot  blame  you,  nor  shall  a  shadow 
of  displeasure  in  regard  to  you  ever  cross 
my  mind.  .  In  your  own  language — please, 
please  forget  all  that  has  past.  You'll 
make  me  miserable  if  you  think  of  it  at 
all." 

She  replied  only  with  a  look;  and,  hand- 
in-hand,  they  returned  to  j,he  house. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

/ 
"  There  is  a  Divinity  that  shapes  our  ends. 
Rough-hew  them  as  we  will." 

Shakspeaee. 

Henry  Warden  was  now  fully  aware 
that  his. situation  had  become  extremely 
critical.  It  was  time  for  him  to  take  some 
decisive  step:  yet  what  could  he  do'?  He 
was  too  modest,  and  had  too  humble  an 
opinion  of  himself  to  believe,  merely  from 
her  conduct,  that  he  was  loved  by  Lucy 
Neal;  but  still,  he  could  not  but  feel  that 
she  regarded  him  with  a  tender  interest. 
Was  lie  to  presume  that  her  affections 
were  fixed  on  him,  and,  acting  under  this 
supposition,  to  disclose  to  her  frankly  the 
secrets  of  his  own  heart,  or  leave  her  at 
once  without  making  any  explanations  1 
The  fanner  course  might  grossly  insult 
her ;  the  latter  might  involve  her  in  dis- 
tressing doubts,  and  shake  her  confidence 
in  her  friend.  Besides,  was  it  prudent  to 
forego  a  certaintv  of  happiness  for  an  un- 
certainty of  bliss?  Edith  Mayfield  had 
rejected  his  suit,  had  spurned  from  her  the 
first  and  brightest  coinage  of  his  soul,  and 
had,  as  he  feared,  proved  to  be  deceitful 
and  selfish.  Thus,  it  was  doubtful  wheth- 
iv  he  could  ever  win  her;  and  if  he  should 
succeed  in  that,  it  was  still  more  doubtful 
whether  a  union  with  her  would  prove  a 
blessing.  It  is  not  the  lot  of  mortals  to  be 
entirely  blest,  thought  he,  and  it  is  folly 
to  expect  it.  Lucy  is  beautiful — she  is 
young,  artless,  and  innocent.  She  is,  in 
fact,  all  I  could  wish  a  woman  to  be;  and, 
though  I  cannot  love   her  as  wildly  and 


fervently  as  I  once  loved  Edith,  I  cannot 
but  regard  her  with  ceaseless  tenderness, 
and  we  can  be  as  happy  together  as  it  is 
possible  to  be  on  earth.  My  first  love 
was  a  foolish  dream — a  delirium,  as  the 
master  calls  it,  and  the  charms  and  perfec- 
tions of  its  object  the  creations  of  my 
own  young  imagination.  When  he  came 
to  this  conclusion  he  found  himself  ex- 
tremely miserable,  and  he  saw  at  once  that 
it  was  impossible  for  him  ever  to  esteem 
another  woman  if  his  early  hope  should 
prove  to  be  a  baseless  fabric.  We  ask 
again,  what  could  he  do?  The  wisdom  of 
mortals  is  often  the  extremest  folly ;  and, 
knowing  this,  Warden  resolved  to  be  guided 
by  circumstances,  and  to  try  further  the 
heart  of  Lucy  Neal.  In  the  execution  of 
this  plan  he  one  day  abruptly  informed 
her  that  he  was  going  to  return  to  Ala- 
mance. "  I'm  in  earnest,"  said  he,  "  for  I 
have  over-staid  my  time  and  must  leave 
to-morrow." 

Lucy  essayed  to  make  a  reply;  but.  not 
being  able  to  speak,  she  began  to  weep, 
and  Warden  remained  silent,  not.  knowing 
what  to  do  or  say.  Lucy,  however,  re- 
lieved his  embarrassment  by  leaving  the 
room,  and,  hastily  washing  her  face,  she 
returned  again,  smiling  and  blushing. 

"  Why  did  you  attempt  to  quiz  me  so  ?" 
asked  Warden,  somewhat  astonished  at 
the  sudden  change  in  her  manner. 

"  I  was  just  in  fun,"  replied  she,  and, 
attempting  to  laugh,  she  again  burst  into 
tears  and  withdrew. 

Warden  took  up  her  scrap-book,  in 
which  she  had  before  requested  him  to  in- 
scribe some  memento,  and,  going  down  to 
the  alcove,. wrote  the  following  piece: — 

This  book  is  like  the  sacred  ground 

Where  all  the  parish  dead  are  laid, 
Where  daily  o'er  some  fresh-made  mound 

Sad  tears  are  shed  and  vows  are  made ; 
Next  day  there's  silence  o'er  that  grave 

But  yester-morn  by  mourners  prest  ; 
And  soon  th'  untrodden  grass  will  wave 

Above  our  friend's  last  place  of  rest. 
Thus  o'er  each  token  graven  here. 

You  will  a  moment  weep  and  sigh, 
But  ere  the  next  shall  claim  a  tear 

The  last  you'll  read  with  careless  eye  ; 
And  few  short  years  will  by  you  glide, 

With  all  their  varied  hopes  and  aims, 
Before  this  book  is  thrown  aside, 

A  record  of  forgotten  names.  _ 
But  if,  like  many,  you  should  find 

Each  lover  false,  each  friend  a  knave, 
When  wayward  Fortune  proves  unkind, 

And  all  your  hopes  are  in  the  grave  ; 
When  from  these  leaves  thy  tearful  eyes 

Recall  fond  mem'ries  of  the  past, 
Then  know  that,  buried  here,  there  lies         / 

A  heart  that  thee  to  the  last."       J 

Lucy  did  not  read  these  lines  until  the 
author  again  left  the  house,  and  when  he 
returned  she  hastily  closed  the  book,  while 
her  eyes  swam  with  tears. 

"  1  fear  I  have  offended  you,  Lucy,"  said 
Warden,  taking  up  the  book,  and  turning 


76 


ALAMANCE. 


to  the  page  on  which  his  piece  was  writ- 
ten. 

"Why  do  you  think  I  am  offended?" 
asked  Lucy. 

"  You  look  as  if  you  were." 

"  My  looks  don't  represent  me  fairly, 
theu;"  replied  Lucy ;  "  and,  in  fact,  it  seems 
that  you  have  all  the  time  mistaken  my 
character." 

"  I  feared  to  write,  the  piece,"  said  War- 
den, "  for  it  is  impossible  for  me  not  to 
speak  warmly  when  the  rhyming  fervour 
is  on  me.  They  are  my  true  sentiments, 
however,  for  I  shall  ever  remember  you, 
though  you  may  not  be  obliged  to  me  for  it." 

Lucy,  hurt  and  surprised  at  this  lan- 
guage, gave  the'  speaker  a  look  that  fairly 
made  his  breast  ache,  and  again  a  flood  of 
tears  drowned  those  bright  and  tenderly- 
beaming  orbs. 

"For  God's  sake  forgive  me,"  passion- 
ately exclaimed  Warden,  at  the  same  time 
taking  one  of  her  hands  in  both  of  his. 
"  Forgive  me,  Lucy,  my  dear,  sweet  friend, 
if  I  have  wounded  your  feelings.  I  did  not 
mean  to  do  it ;  indeed,  I  did  not  understand 
you  when  you  said  I  had  mistaken  your 
character.  Please,  please  do  not.  cry  so, 
for  every  tear  you  shed  burns  upon  my 
heart.     Do  you  forgive  me  V 

"  I  meant,"  said  Lucy,  drying  her  eyes, 
"  that  you  did  not  know  me  if  you  thought 
me  fickle  and  forgetful.  I  know,  Mr.  War- 
den, I  shall  never  forget  you,  and  I 
thought  you  ought  not  to  have  believed 
that  1  would." 

."  So  you  may  now  think,  Lucy,"  an- 
swered he ;  "  but  a  few  years,  and  new 
scenes  and  new  acquaintances  will  make  a 
great  change." 

"  So  you  may  now  think,"  said  Lucy, 
smiling;  "  but  when  you've  tried  me  you'll 
change,  I  hope,  and  will  then  be  ready  to 
finish " 

"  Finish  what  ?"  asked  Warden. 

Lucy  hung  her  head  and  blushed,  and  at 
last  answered,  in  scarcely  audible  tones, 
"  It's  no  matter,  and  I  ought  not  to  have 
mentioned  it." 

"  1  understand  you  now,"  replied  War- 
den, "  and  will  do  as  you  desire.  I  could 
not  find  a  word  that  suited  me ;  for  '  prized"1 
and  '  likcaV  do  not  express  my  feelings,  and 
are  unpoetical.  I'll  go  down  to  the  alcove 
and  see  if  your  name  upon  the  maple  will 
not  inspire  me." 

He  was  now  fully  determined  to  write 
"loved"  in  the  blank  in  the  last  line;  but 
as  soon  as  he  set  his  foot  in  the  bower 
Edith  Mayfield  came  into  his  mind,  and  all 
the  early  history  of  his  life  rushed  upon 
him  with  overwhelming  force.  He  had, 
though  he  scarcely  knew  it,  been  long 
struggling  with  himself,  and  now  the  crisis 
had  come ;  and  his  moral  firmness  tri- 
umphed. His  resolution  was  fixed  at  last, 
and  immovably ;  and  as  he  hastened  to  the 


house  he  thought  he  heard  at  the  gate  the 
sound  of  a  well-known  voice.  It  struck 
strangely  on  his  ear,  and,  hardly  believing 
his  senses,  he  hurried  to  the  lane,  and 
there,  to  his  inexpressible  astonishment 
and  delight,  he  met  with  Rust  and  his 
sable  namesake,  Ben.  From  these  he  re- 
ceived his  mother's  letter,  informing  him 
of  his  brother's  illness,  and  he  immediately 
began  to  prepare  for  his  return  to  Ala- 
mance. 

Lucy  Neal  no  longer  urged,  as  she  had 
formerly  done,  the  further  stay  of  her 
friend,  and  had  but  little  to  say  during  the 
evening  and  the  sad  night  which  followed. 
She  was,  however,  extremely  attentive  to 
the  wants  of  Warden's  two  friends,  while 
on  himself  her  swimming  eyes  were  con- 
stantly bent,  and  her  manner  towards  him 
was  full  of  timorous  and  touching  tender- 
ness. Struggling  between  smiles  and  tears 
she  glided  about  the  house,  preparing  va- 
rious articles  for  his  journey,  «md  occa- 
sionally suggesting  precautions  to  him 
with  a  voice  whose  trembling  melody 
melted  like  a  strain  of  sweet,  sad  music, 
into  the  heart  of  every  hearer.  There 
were  few  dry  eyes  that  night  at  the  con- 
clusion of  the  prayer  of  Abraham  Neal. 
"  Good-night"  fell  mournfully  and  softly 
from  the  lips  of  every  one,  and  Rust  was 
the  only  one  who  slept  that  night  beneath 
the  roof  of  The  Mountain  Home.  His  was 
the  only  appetite  at  breakfast  next  morn- 
ing, and  he  only  said  "  farewell"  when  the 
parting  occurred.  The  tears  streamed 
down  the  cheeks  of  the  venerable  Neal, 
his  wife  kept  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes, 
and  even  the  servants  wept.  Lucy,  how- 
ever, who  had  cried  before  when  Warden 
spoke  of  returning,  now,  tearless  and  silent, 
pressed  his  hand,  and  then  immediately 
ran  to  her  chamber,  at  a  window  in  which 
her  face  and  handkerchief  were  visible. 
Warden  himself  looked  back  at  every  step, 
till  he  came  to  the  great  maple  on  which 
he  had  carved  her  name ;  and  then,  taking 
out  his  own  handkerchief,  he  waved  it  at 
Lucy,  kissed  it,  and  hanging  it  on  a  bough 
of  the  tree,  disappeared  in  the  forest.  She 
was  soon  at  the  alcove;  and,  while  press- 
ing the  handkerchief  to  her  breast,  a  note 
fell  out,  which  she  often  kissed  before  she 
read  :  "  I  had  much  to  tell  you,  but  could 
not.  Forgive  me,  and  remember  me  as  a 
brother.  We'll  meet  again  on  earth  or  in 
heaven,  Lucy.     Adieu  !     H.  W." 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

HOME    AFTER   A  LONG  ABSENCE. 

Henry  Warden's  feelings  became  more 
and  more  depressed  as  he  advanced  from 
his  late  pleasant  retreat.  He  little  dreamed, 
until  he  parted  from  her,  of  the  hold  which 
Lucy  Neal  had  acquired  upon  his  feelings, 


ALAMANCE 


rr 


f,rd«  as  is  usually  the  case,  he  began,  when 
too  late,  to  remember  her  various  excel- 
lences, her  pure  a*hd  fervent  attachment 
for  himself,  the  happiness  which,  with  her, 
he  might  enjoy,  and  his  folly  in  not  ac- 
cepting the  boon  which  had  been  thrown 
in  his  way.  He  remembered,  too,  that 
Lucy  was  just  such  a  character  as  he  had 
once  supposed  Edith  Mayfield  to  be,  and 
that  this  latter  was  not  such  a  being  as  he 
had  imagined  she  was.  When,  however, 
the  mountains,  which  spoke  of  Lucy,  had 
melted  from  his  sight,  a  new  train  of 
thoughts  came  into  his  mind,  and  old  asso- 
ciations and  recollections  were  revived. 
He  listened  with  more  attention  to  the 
stones  of  the  two  Bens,  one  of  whom  was 
constantly  talking,  and  became  more  im- 
patient to  get  home.  Guided  by  the  tact 
and  skill  of  Rust,  he  was  soon  at  Alamance, 
arriving  in  ,the  night,  at  the  house  of  his 
friend  and  companion.  Here,  he  heard  of 
his  brother's  death,  of  the  forfeiture  of  his 
father's  estate  to  Nathan  Glutson  by  the 
terms  of  a  mortgage  made  long  ago,  of 
the  disappearance  of  the  negroes,  and  the 
flight  of  his  mother  and  sister,  who  had 
taken  refuge  at  p]sther  Bell's.  He  heard 
also,  for  the  first  time,  of  the  fate  of  Edith 
Mayfield  ;  and  his  heart  giving  way  under 
its  accumulated  sorrows,  he  remembered 
the  advice  of  the  master,  and  bitterly  re- 
pented his  folly  in  having  risked  his  hap- 
piness on  the  chances  of  such  an  uncertain 
hazard.  He  was  more  than  ever  anxious 
to  see  his  mother  and  sister,  and,  despatch- 
ing a  messenger  to  them  that  night  to  no- 
tify them  of  his  arrival,  was  informed  that 
they  would  meet  him  at  sunrise  on  the 
following  morning,  in  a  place  near  Esther 
Bell's,  known  as  the  Grape-vine  Thicket. 
Thither,  before  the  appointed  hour,  Henry 
Warden  went,  and  was  soon  locked  in  the 
embraces  of  mother  and  sister,  no  one  of 
the  three  for  a  long  time  speaking  a  single 
word.  The  earth  was  still  wrapped  in  the 
thin  shadows  of  the  morning  twilight,  and 
hence  neither  mother  nor  son  could  see 
the  changes  which  time  had  worked  in 
the  features  of  the  other ;  but,  dark  as  it 
was,  Henry  observed  a  great  alteration  in 
the  person  of  Kate.  When  he  left  her 
last,  she  was  a  mere  child,  and  now  the 
same  Kate  lay  in  his  arms  a  beautiful  girl, 
already  nearly  a  woman,  and  a  new  pang 
shot  through  his  heart  as  he  remembered 
the  humble  position  which,  as  a  lady,  she 
would  have  to  take  in  society  in  conse- 
quence of  his  father's  slender  circum- 
stances. Mrs.  Warden  was  the  first  to 
break  silence,  and  avoiding  all  allusion  to 
the  affecting  incidents  of  her  own  history, 
she  pressed  her  son  for  an  account  of  his 
adventures.  His  story  was  very  briefly 
told,  for  he  was  now  sufficiently  master  of 
himself  to  inquire  into  the  particulars  of 
matters  which  were  burning  in  the  hearts 


of  all.  After  a  long  and  minute  account 
of  the  life,  actions,  saymgs,  illness,  and 
death  of  little  Wash,  and  of  family  trou- 
bles, Mrs.  Warden  spoke  as  follows  : 

"  I  know,  my  son,  what  you  wish  to  hear. 
She  has  left  us,  and  it  is  supposed  that  she 
was  drowned,  though  some  strangely  sus- 
pect Nathan  Glutson  to  be  guilty  of  her 
death.  That  she  loved  you  I  have  no 
doubt ;  for,  though  she  never  told  me  so,  I 
could  read  it  in  her  actions.  She  came 
almost  every  day-  to  enquire  about  you, 
and  the  last  time  I  saw  her — the  very  &uy 
before  she  disappeared — she  was  at  our 
house,  and  seemed  so  sad  that  I  pressed 
her  to  let  me  know  what  ailed  her.  She 
said  she  had  her  sorrow's,  which  wem 
known  only  to  herself,  and  that  although 
every  body  thought  she  was  happy,  she 
was  in  reality  the  most  miserable  person 
on  earth.  My  kind  words  caused  her  to 
weep  very  much,  and  seemed  to  open  her 
heart,  for  she  promised  to  make  me  her 
only  confident  the  next  time  she  saw  me, 
and  requested  me  to  remember  her  to  you. 
It  is  said  that  people  of  fine  .sensibilities 
often  have  presentiments  of  coming  evils, 
and  I  begin  to  believe  it,  for  I  never  saw 
Edith  look  so  sorrowful  as  she  did  when 
she  bade  me  farewell.  She  was  so  meek, 
so  gentle,  so  tender  and  sad,  and  her  eyes 
shone  with  such  a  soft  and  unnatural  light, 
that  she  seemed  to  me  to  be  about  to  leave 
this  world  for  a  better,  and  no  doubt  she 
and  little  Wash  are  now  thinking  of  you 
in  heaven." 

Each  of  the  three,  occupied  with  a  train 
of  unutterable  thoughts  which  this  speech 
produced,  sat  musing  in  silence  for  several 
minutes,  and  again  the  mother  was  the 
first  to  speak. 

"  My  son,"  said  she,  "  the  sun  is  some 
distance  up,  and  it  is  time  for  you  to  leave 
us,  for  the  Tories  will  hear  of  you  and 
soon  be  about." 

"  Mother,"  answered  Henry,  "  I  cannot 
leave  you,  and  my  heart  reproaches  me 
already  for  having  remained  away  so  long. 
If  the  Tories  are  swarming  over  the  coun 
try,  it  is  the  very  reason  why  I  should  bo 
here  to  protect  you  and  sister  Kate." 

"  Your  presence  can  do  us  little  good," 
replied  Mrs.  Warden,  "  and  may  do  your- 
self a  great  injury.  WTe  are  in  no  imme- 
diate danger,  for  the  murderers  and  robbers 
never  dare  to  come  to  Esther  Bell's." 

"  They  have  injured  you,  though,"  ex- 
claimed Henry;  "and  the  blood  of  my 
brother  cries  for  vengeance.  I  tell  you, 
mother,  I  cannot  leave  you,  for  I  would  be 
wretched,  and  every  moment  would  im- 
agine that  I  heard  your  dying  shrieks." 

"  You  must  go,  my  son,"  said  the  mo 
ther;  "you  must  go  where  you  can  best 
serve  your  country,  and  then  you  will  be 
serving  me.  You  are  not  used  to  the  arti- 
fices and  cunning  of  the  Tories,  and  they 


& 


ALAMANCE 


would  certainly  put  you  to  death  in  less 
than  a  week  if" you  were  to  remain.  Go 
again  to  the  army ;  put  your  twist  in  God, 
and  fight  bravely  for  our  rights.  Read 
daily  the  Bible  I  gave  you  when  you  left 
before,  and  if  we  never  meet  again  on 
earth,  let  us  prepare  for  a  meeting  in  a 
brighter- world..  Come,  my  dear  son,  let 
us  part." 

"Stay  one'  minute,"  cried  Henry  War- 
den, "  and  let  me  say  another  word.  Who 
is  to  provide  for  you?  Who  is  to  provide 
for  sister  Kate,  who  will  soon  be  a  wo- 
man? You  say  all  our  property  is  gone, 
and  you  are  perfectly  destitute  and  depen- 
dent on  the  charity  of  others.  I  cannot 
endure  that  such  should  be  the  case,  and 
it  almost  maddens  me  to  think  that  dear 
Kate,  so  tender,  so  delicate,,  and  so  beauti- 
ful, should  now  become  a  drudge.  She 
must  and  she  shall  be  a  lady,  and  I  will  be 
the  drudge.  I  will  throw  aside  nry  arms,  and 
labor  till  I  am  worn  down  with  toil  before 
she  shall  sink  from  that  rank  in  which  she 
was  born  and  raised." 

"  My  son,  my  son,  beware  of  pride  ;  it  is 
a  most  sinful  passion.  It  is  not  fortune, 
rank,  and  fine  clothes  that  make  the  lady, 
and  Kate  will  be  one  in  any  rank  and  any 
dress.  The  first  characteristic  of  the  lady, 
and  of  the  gentleman,  is  an  ability  to  act 
worthy  of  the  situation  in  which  God  has 
been  pleased  to  place,  them.  Kate's  heart 
is  as  good,  and  pure,  and  gentle,  as  it  ever 
was,  and  yet  she  cheerfully  performs  the- 
duties  of  her  new  position.  So  let  us  all 
act,  and  may  the  blessing  of  Heaven  rest 
on  you,  my  dearest,  son.     Good-by !" 

The  heart-strings  of  the  mother  were 
breaking,  yet  she  shed  not  a  tear,  and  did 
not,  like  her  daughter,  look  back  until  she 
was  nearly  out  of  view,  when  she  turned, 
waved  her  handkerchief,  and  then  rushed 
into  the  house,  and,  locking  herself  in  her 
chamber,  poured  the  sorrows  of  her  sur- 
charged breast  into  that  ear  that  is  ever 
listening  to  the  cries  of  the  desolate.  As 
for  Henry  Warden,, he  became  rivetted  to 
the  spot  where  the  meeting  occurred,  and 
stood  gazing  towards  the  house,  thinking 
of  a  thousand  tender  things  which  he 
ought  to  have  said,  and  imagining  that  he 
could  9tV-[  see  the  dear  ones  who  had  left 
hi  n.  All  the  features  of  the  scene  around 
him  were  graven  in  his  memory;  every 
rock,  and  tree,  and  shrub,  became  invested 
with  a  peculiar  interest,  and  the  place  was 
ever  after  sacred  ground  to  him.  At  last 
he  remembered  his  father,  and  his  duty  to 
him,  and  started  for  his  hiding-place,  in- 
tending to  pass  in  his  route  the  old  War- 
den place,  and  other  scenes  where  he  had 
spent  the  happiest  portion  of  his  life.  He 
was  partially  disguised,  wearing  a  slouched 
hat,  which  concealed  his  features,  and  an 
overcoat  over  his  arms,  and  laying  aside, 
as  far  as  he  could,  his  military  air  and 


manner.  Arrived  at  the  Warden  estate, 
he  wandered  through  the  fields  add  mead- 
ows, living  over  again  the  scenes  of  his 
i  boyhood.  Although  the  plantation  looked 
desolate,  blackened  by  the  smoke  of  fires 
that  had  consumed  all  the  fences,  the 
barns,  and  out-houses,  and  not  a  living 
creature  was  any  where  to  be  seen,  it  was 
still  to  Henry  Warden  the  most  beautiful 
spot  on  earth,  more  beautiful  than  it  had 
ever  seemed  before.  Here  -were  the  old 
fields  over  which,  with  merry  clamour  of 
boys  and  dogs,  he  had  often  chased  the 
timid  hare  in  the  bright,  frosty  winter 
mornings  ;  the  smooth,  green  meadows, 
where  he  had  watched  the  shadows  of  the 
clouds  sweeping  over  the  wavy  grass,  and 
rolled  in  the  sweet-smelling  hay,  listening 
to  the  hum  of  bees  among  the  flowers,  and 
the  song  of  the  neighbouring  ploughman, 
while 

,  "  Merrily  the  mower  whet  his  scythe." 

Yonder  stood  an  old  birch,  a  living  chron- 
icler of  the  past — telling,  with  its  rudely- 
carved  names,  and  dates,  and  hearts,  pleas- 
ant stories  of  times  gone  by  ;  and  near  by 
it  was  the  patriarch  oak,  beneath  whose 
leafy  canopy  he  had  whiled  away  many 
a  summer  day  in  rapt  meditation,  and  in 
building  castles,  airy,  light,  and  beautiful 
as  the  many-tinted  clouds  that  lazily  float- 
ed over  him.     Every  object  that  he  saw 
had  a  tale  to  tell ;  around  each  still  clus- 
tered a  thousand  recollections ;   still  lin- 
gered the  bright,  familiar  spirits  with  which 
his  happy  fancy  long  ago  had  peopled  it. 
They  come   again   at  his  bidding,  these 
shadowy  friends  of  his  younger  days  ;  but 
no  voice  or  sound  were  heard  among  them, 
and  their  pale  faces  looked  sadly  on  him. 
Here,  thought  he,  I   spent   my  innocent 
childhood,  with  a  thousand  fair  and  tender 
beings—here,  by  each  hill  and  vale,  and 
green-margined    brook,    were    the    fairy 
realms  where  I  lived  so  happy  among  the 
bright,  pure  creatures  of  my  fancy.     And 
these  are -now  the  property  of  another; 
these,  around  which  my  heart-strings  must 
ever  twine,  are  the  possessions  of  my  en- 
emy.   Sweet  home  of  my  childhood  !    My 
dear,  native  earth,  I  must  see  you  no  more : 
With  this  determination  he  turned  his  back 
on  the  place,  when   his  eyes  fell  on  an 
object  that  arrested    his  attention,  for  it 
seemed  strangely  in  keeping  with  the  deso- 
lation that  reigned  around.     This  was  a 
very  aged    and   decrepit  negro,  in  gar- 
ments that  looked  as  aged  as  himself,  and 
who,  with  a  long  stick  in  his   hand,  and 
bent  nearly  double,  was  hobbling  across  a 
neighbouring  field  in  the  direction  of  War- 
den.    The  latter  waited  until  the  old  man 
approached,  but   finding  that  his  hearing 
was   almost  totally  gone,  he  deemed  it 
prudent  to  ask  no  questions.     The  negro 
seemed  to  know  but  little;  said  he  be- 


A  L  A  M  A  N  0  E. 


79 


longetl  to  Esther  Bell,  and,  thinking  "Mas- 
sa  stranger,"  might  be  lost,  he  had  come 
to  put  him  in  the  road  he  wished  to  travel. 

"I  know  these  roads  well," -said  Warden, 
"  and  can  find  my  way  ;  but,  nevertheless, 
I  am  still  grateful  to  you  for  your  kind 
intentions." 

"  And  whar  mout  young  massa  be 
gwine!"  asked  the  negro. 

"  I  am  wandering  about  for  amusement," 
answered  Warden,  '-and  am  going  by  the 
school-house  and  the  church.  Good-day, 
old  man !" 

"Good-day,  massa,  and  God  bless  you!" 

It  struck  the  judge,  after  he  had  left  the 
negro,  that  he  had  been  imprudent,  and 
that  he  ought  to  change  his  course ;  but 
not  being  able  to  resist  his  inclinations,  he 
passed  on  over  ground,  every  inch  of  which 
was  sacred,  and  came  in  sight  of  the  old 
field  school.  The  place  being  fixed  in  his 
memory  as  he  last  saw  it,  and  all  the  in- 
tervening tract  of  time  being  for  the  pres- 
ent forgotten,  he  almost  expected  to  be 
greeted  by  the  merry  din  which  he  had 
been  accustomed  there  to  hear.  As  he 
approached,  the  utter  silence  that  reigned, 
and  the  changes  which  he  saw,  brought 
painfully  to  his  mind  the  solitary  condition 
of  the  place,  and  solemnly  impressed  him 
with  the  suitable  character  of  all  earthly 
things.  The  paths  and  the  well-trodden 
play-ground  were  overgrown  with  grass 
and  sedge ;  the  yard  was  choked  up  with 
leaves  and  fallen  limbs,  and  the  house  filled 
with  cobwebs  and  dusti  A  few  old  books 
and  scraps  of  paper  lay  scattered  about ; 
a  rusty  slate  or  two  hung  against  the  walls, 
with  half-effaced  figures  on  them  ;  the  mas- 
ter's desk  was  overturned,  spiders  were 
weaving  through  the  house,  and  lizards 
and  scorpions  ran,  frightened,  over  the 
floor  and  benches.  Taking  with  him  a 
few  memorials  of  the  past,  Warden  next 
directed  his  steps  to  the  church,  and  going, 
first  into  the  grave-yard,  he  found  that  it 
had  also  changed,  but  differently  from  the 
place  which  he  had  just  left ;  for  while  the 
latter  had  become  desolate,  the  former  ap- 
peared to  have  been  often  visited.  Fol- 
lowing his  mother's  directions,  he  went 
first  to  his  brother's  grave,  and  throwing 
himself  upon  it,  the  fountains  of  his  heart 
overflowed  and  he  wept  like  a  child.  He 
had  seen  men  fall  like  grain  before  the 
reaper ;  he  had  seen  death  in  its  most 
ghastly  forms,  but  never  had  it  appeared 
to  him  so  awful  and  so  dread  as  when  he 
reflected  that  in  the  damp  earth  beneath 
ljim,  in  its  dark,  narrow  tenement,  lay 
mouldering  into  dust  the  manly  form  of  his 
little  brother,  so  full  of  life  and  beauty 
when  he  saw  him  last.  He  began,  too,  to 
think  of  the  poor  lad's  last  hours,  and  his 
reflections  became  so  torturing,  that,  to 
relieve  himself,  he  strolled  over  the  ground, 
wondering  who  filled  the  many  new  graves, 


and  noting  the  inscriptions  on  the  ancient 
tombstones.  The  modern  ones  were  of 
marble,  but  those  of  an  old  date  were  gen- 
erally formed  from  slate-rock,  were  over- 
grown with  moss  and  ivy,  and  covered 
with  curious  and  half-effaced  emblems,  and 
passages  from  Scripture.  On  one  he  found 
only  a  name,  and  a  circle  which  he  sup- 
posed was  intended  to  represent  eternity. 
On  several  there  were  globes,  and  sei ; 
and  doves  in  the  act  of  flying  from  them  ; 
on  others,  were  broken  wheels  and  extin- 
guished candles  ;  and  on  one,  a  very  an- 
cient one,  was  a  solitary  star.  His  atten- 
tion was,  however,  particularly  attracted 
by  an  old  slab  of  blue  slate,'  which  was. 
deeply  sunk  into  the  earth,  and  seemed  to 
be  crumbling  away.  Lifting  it  out  of  the 
ground,  and  cleaning  off  the  dirt,  he  saw, 
roughly  carved  upon  it,  a  mound,  and  the 
figure  of  a  man  standing  by  it  and  g 
at  a  rainbow.  Under  the  name  and  ago 
of  the  person  to  whose  memory  the  stone 
was  sacred  was  the  inscription, 

"  She  died  in  hope— so  let  us  live." 

The  inscription  had  a  happy  effect  on  his 
feelings ;  a*nd,  casting  a  parting  glance  at  his 
brother's  grave,  he  went  into  the  church. 
Here  he  had  never  been  alone  before,  and 
as  his  footsteps  echoed  through  the  empty 
building,  and  he  looked  round  on  the  va- ' 
cant  pews  and  pulpit,  he  wras  strangely 
affected.  He  had  been  so  accustomed, 
when  he  entered,  to  see  faces  around  and 
above  him,  and  multitudes  of  people,  and 
the  house  Avere  so  intimately  associated  in 
his  mind,  that,  for  a  moment,  he  imagined 
himself  to  be  the  last  survivor  of  the  gen- 
eration with  whom  he  had  worshipped 
there.  Unusually  large  as  was  the  house 
for  a  country  church,  he  recollected  to 
whom  each  pew  had  belonged,  and  the 
place  in  it  where  each  member  of  the  fam- 
ily sat  during  the  service.  Thus  he  knew 
the  precise  place  often  occupied  by  Edith 
Mayfield,  and,  seating  himself  in  it,  he  saw 
lying  on  the  floor  a  pocket  Bible,  whirl! 
seemed  to  have  been  recently  used.  He 
regarded  it  as  a  sacred  relic,  for  Edith's 
name  was  in  it ;  and,  turning  over  the  leaves 
he  found  on  the  margin  of  a  page,  and  just 
under  the  metrical  version  of  the  sixty- 
seventh  psalm,  the  initials  "H.  and  E. 
W.,"  enclosed  in  a  heart,  around  which 
was  the  word  "  Eternity,"  and  under  which 
a  date  which  he  remembered  corresponded 
with  that  on  which  he  had  written  to  her, 
desiring  to  engage  himself.  "  Too  late,  too 
late  !"  thought  he,  kissing  the  inscription  ; 
"  the  master  was  right:  the  full  fruition  of 
love  is  not  to  be  enjoyed  on  earth,  but 
surely  is  to  be  in  heaven.  Edith,  dear,  dear  • 
Edith,  I  will  think  only  on  thee  while  I  live, 
and  prepare  to  meet  thy  pure  spirit  where 
sorrow  and  parting  are  never  known!" 
Thus  resolving,  he  next  seated  himself  in 


80 


,  A  HI  A  N  C  E  . 


his  father's  pew,  and  conjuring  up  the  limes 
that  were  gone,  and  peopling  the  house 
with  its  former  Sabbath  tenants,  bright 
and  familiar  faces  were  gathering  round 
him,  and  he  could  almost  imagine  that  he 
heard  the  voice  of  his  old  friend  the  par- 
son, when  a  noise  in  the  closet  under  the 
pulpit  aroused  him  from  his  pleasant  rev- 
ery  to  a  state  of  very  unpleasant  agitation. 
Reason,  education,  and  experience  had 
not  entirely  eradicated  those  superstitious 
feelings  which  are  inherent  in  every  na- 
ture, and  especially  in  those  of  a  refined, 
poetical  temperament ;  and  Warden  began 
to  wish  himself  away.  He  dreaded  no  par- 
ticular danger;  but  then  the  very  vague- 
ness of  his  fears  rendered  them  the  more 
distressing ;  and  as  the  noise  was  again  re- 
peated, his  hair  rose,  and  cold  shudders 
ran  over  him,  when  the  door  of  the  closet 
flew  open  and  the  Rev.  Dr.  Caldwell  made 
his  appearance. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

DISCOVERIES. 

The  parson,  aware  that  his  situation 
was  an  awkward  one,  began  immediately 
to  define  his  position.  "  The  times  don't 
admit  of  ceremony,"  said  he,  "  and  there- 
fore I'll  explain  to  you  at  once  how  I  came 
to  be  here,  and  I  will  expect  you  to  do  the 
same  in  regard  to  yourself.  Now,  you 
must  know  that  under  that  closet  I  have 
prepared  a  secret  door,  and  that,  when 
hard  pushed,  1  take  refuge  there;  and  if 
the  closet  should  be  forced  open,  I  can 
escape  under  the  floor  of  the  house.  Such 
is  the  cause  of  my  being  housed  up  there 
this  morning.  The  Tories  have  become 
ravenous,  and  the  few  Whigs  left  at  Ala- 
mance have  determined  to  join  the  army 
of  General  Greene.  This  very  morning,  at 
dawn,  I  parted  from  your  father,  he 
aiming  for  the  army  and  I  for  Esther 
.Bell's,  to  deliver  some  messages  from  him 
to  your  mother.  I  was  on  foot ;  and,  as  1 
came  on,  three  villainous  Tories,  also  afoot, 
saw  me  and  gave  chase,  and  such  a  race  a 
parson  never  had  before.  As  the  rascals 
were  gaining  on  me  I  dashed  in  at  Alex- 
ander's, told  his  heroic  daughters  to  act  as 
I  if  were  hid  about  the  premises,  and  see- 
ing that  they  understood  me,  I  escaped  by 
the  back  door,  plunged  into  a  swamp,  and 
rcfely  made  my  way  hither.  When  you 
first,  entered  the  church  1  believed  you 
were  one  of  my  pursuers ;  but  when  you 
came  to  your  father's  pew,  I  was  enabled, 
after  a  long  peep,  to  make  out  your  fea- 
tures. I  knew  you  were  sent  for  and  the 
cause,  and  so  tell  me,  in  brief,  where  you 
came  from,  how  you  have  been,  what  you 
are  doing  here,  and  whither  you  are  going." 

"1  have  been  generally  well,"  answered 
Warden,  "excepting  some  slight  wounds 


I  received  in  the  battle  of  Camden,  of 
which  you  have  heard.  I  came  from  the 
mountains  whither  I  was  carried.  I  am 
here  to  gratify  a  natural  feeling,  and  I  am 
going " 

"  Hush  !  hush  !"  exclaimed  the  doctor. 
"  Do  you  not  hear  voices  by  the  creek?" 

Before  Warden  could  answer,  three  men 
appeared  on  the  brow  of  the  hill  which  led 
down  from  the  side  of  the  church  in  which 
the  two  friends  were  standing,  and  the 
parson  immediately  knew  them  to  be  the 
same  persons  who  had  chased  him  in  the 
morning.  He  and  Warden  also  saw  that 
William  Glutson  wa3  oneof  the  party ;  and 
the  young  officer,  true  to  the  instinct  of 
the  soldier,  instantly  drew  and  cocked  his 
pistols,  and,  handing  one  to  the  doctor, 
said,  "  Make  sure  of  the  man  on  the  left, 
and  I'll  pink  the  one  on  the  right." 

"  I  will  when  it  is  necessary,"  answered 
the  parson';  "but  for  the  present  let  us 
watch  and  listen.  See !  they  are  coming 
right  under  this  window,  and  we  may  gain 
some  important  information.  Keep  per- 
fectly still,  and  we  can  hear  every  word 
through  this  broken  glass."  " 

The  Tories  did  come  under  the  window, 
and  seated  themselves  on  a  bench  by  the 
side  of  the  church,  Will  Glutson  saying, 
as  he  sat  down,  "  I  shouldn't  be  surprised, 
Pete,  after  all,  to  find  that  you've  been 
fooled." 

"  How  could  I  be  fooled  ?"  answered  the 
one  spoken  to  ;  "  haven't  I  told  you  what  I 
saw  and  heard  with  my  own  ears  and  eyes  ? 
The  man  that  fools  me  will  have  to  rise 
before  day." 

"  What  sort  of  a  negro  was  it  that  you 
saw  1  Describe  his  looks,  and  tell  us  all 
that  passed." 

"  He  was  a  miserable  old  sinner,  with 
one  foot  in  the  grave  and  'tother  hobbling 
to  it,  and  was  so  deaf  that  I  made  myself, 
hoarse  in  bellowing  to  him.  He  knows 
nothing  and  nobody,  except  his  master  and 
mistress  and  the  parson,  and  couldn't  even 
tell  that  there  was  a  war  going  on.  I  told 
him  I  wanted  to  see  the  preacher  badly,  as 
my  child  was  very  sick,  and  he  said  he 
had  just  lent  him  his  horse,  and  that  he  had 
gone  off  in  a  prodigious  hurry  to  see  some 
one  at  Esther  Bell's.  So  you  see  he  has 
fooled  the  old  negro  and  given  us  the  slip." 

"  The  devilish  old  fox !"  exclaimed 
Glutson  ;  "  his  hide  and  tallow  would  have 
been  worth  a  fortune  to  me.  D — n  him  !  I 
thought  I  had  him  sure," 

"And  so  did  I,"  said  Pete  Simmons, 
"  and  was  beginning  to  laugh  to  myself  as 
I  thought  how  we'd  roast  his  ribs.  I  would 
have  been  sheriff;  and,  gods  !  how  I  would 
have  welted  him  every  pop!  (Here  the 
old  gentleman  alluded  to  unconsciously 
winced  and  felt  his  back.)  I  was  so  sure 
of  him,"  continued  the  last  speaker,  "  that 
I  was  cutting  him  about  at  random  to  find 


ALAMANCE 


SI 


his  tender  points.  Holy  Moses  !  wouldn't 
I  have  made  him  hop  as  I  jerked  him  over 
the  naked  legs."  (The  old  gentleman  did 
hop,  but  soon  recovered  his  composure.) 

'•  We'll  get  the  old  cock  yet,"  said  Glut- 
son,  "  and  then  you  may  tickle  him  to  your 
heart's  satisfaction.  In  the  mean  time  I 
have  great  news  to  tell  you — Henry  War- 
den has  returned  to  Alamance." 

11  What!  him  they  called  the  judge1?" 
asked  Dick  Sikes. 

"  The  very  same  ;  come,  by  G — d,  right 
into  a  trap,  and  this  night  we'll  take  hiin  " 
It  was  now  Warden's  time  to  start ;  but 
a  motion  of  the  doctor's  hand  admon- 
ish sd  him  to  be  quiet,  and  Glutson  con- 
tinued :  "Great  times  are  ahead.  I  know 
the  sneaking,  whey-faced  hero  well,  and 
he'll  stay  with  Ben  Rust  to-night,  for  Ben 
hi .■:  also  come  with  him.  We  must  and 
can  take  them  both,  and  these  are  my 
plans  :  There  are  five  of  our  friends  at, fa- 
ther's, and  we  three  make  eight.  Do  you 
two  prowl  about  Bell's  and  Rust's  this 
evening  till  night,  and  I  will  also  have  spies 
out  in  every  direction.  At  ten  o'clock  we 
will  meet- here,  and  every  man  must  have 
a  gun,  a  sword,  and  two  pistols  and  a  dirk, 
and  surely  eight  of  us  can  storm  Captain 
Poll's  castle,  and  take  her  and  all  her 
friends.  We'll  surround  the  house  about 
twelve  o'clock,  shoot  old  Poll  if  necessary, 
and  if  not,  tie  her ;  we'll  then  hang  Ben  up 
at  her  door  for  a  sign,  and  the  judge,  as 
he  is  called,  must  be  taken  alive." 

"  For  my  part,"  said  the  Tory  who  had 
last  spoken  before,  "  I  don't  care  to  be  en- 
gaged in  this  business,  for  I  have  nothing 
against  the  judge.  I  never  saw  him  ;  but 
I  used  to  know  him  by  report,  and  it  always 
spoke  well  of  him." 

^  "  And  for  that  very  reason  I  hate  him," 
exclaimed  Glutson;  "he  has  crossed  me, 
too,  and  I  intend  that  he  shall  pay  for  it 
if  it  is  fifty  years  hence.  I  look  on  this 
whole  war  as  one  between  me  and  him, 
and  I  intend  to  spend  my  life  in  perse- 
cuting him  and  his  family.  But  there  are 
other  reasons  for  our  putting  him  out  of 
the  way,  Dick,  and  you  shall  be  well  paid 
for  your  trouble  if  you  join  us  ;  and  if  you 
don't,  your  throat  shall  be  cut  from  ear  to 
ear.     Do  you  hear  me  1"  > 

"Yes,  I  hear  you  and  heed  you  too," 
replied  Dick ;  "I  am  always  ready  for  a 
fair  bargain  ;  and  as  you've  hired  me,  and 
the  pay  seems  to  be  good,  I'll  go  it.  I 
can't  afford  to  quarrel  with  my  bread  and 
meat,  especially  as  you  take  all  the  re- 
sponsibility." 

"  Certainly  I  do,"  returned  Will  Glut- 
son,  laughing.  "  It's  twelve  o'clock,  boys, 
and  so  let's  adjourn;  and,  remember  ten 
o'clock  to-night!" 

The  Tories  now  left,  and  were  soon  out 
of  sight,  much  to  the  relief  of  the  parson, 
who  had  a  difficult  task  in  restraining  War- 
F 


den  from  trying  his  strength  with  Glutson. 
"A  time  will  come,"  said  the  old  man, 
"when  you  may  have  a  chance  to  grapple 
with  him  out  of  sight  of  this  holy  edifice 
sacred  to  peace.  And  now  let  us  also  be 
moving,  for  we  must  go  immediately  to 
Rust's,  and  consult  about  our  common 
safety.  The  vile  dogs !  they  have  not  got 
me  yet,  nor  will  they  while  my  trust  re- 
mains in  the  mercy  of  God  and  the  speed 
of  my  legs." 

The  reverend  gentleman  had  no  lack  of 
courage — indeed  he  was  as  fearless  as  any 
man  of  his  time ;  but  the  character  of  his 
mission  made  him  averse  to  the  shedding 
of  blood  by  himself  unless  in  self-defence. 
He  was,  besides,  a  general  benefactor,  and 
he  knew  it,  and  his  fears,  therefore,  were 
not  for  himself;  for  he  was  ready  at  any 
time  to  quit  the  scene  of  his  earthly  labors, 
and  render  an  account  of  his  stewardship. 

On  the  road  the  two  friends  overtook 
the  aged  negro  whom  Warden  had  met  in 
the  morning,  and  who  now  came  so  sud- 
denly and  noiselessly  in  view  that  he 
seemed  to  have  dropped  from  the  clouds. 
"  I  mistrust  you,  old  man,"  said  WTardens 
"  and  must  handle  you  a  little  to  see  if  you 
are  a  wizard.  Tell  me,  on  your  life,"  con- 
tinued he,  seizing  the  negro  by  the  collar, 
"  how  came  you  to  be  dogging  me  from 
place  to  place." 

"  Because,  Master  Henry,"  answered 
old  Ben,  shedding  his  aged  locks,  "  these 
here  cussed  Tories — begging  Master  Cald- 
well's pardon — these  cussed  Tories  are 
monstratious  cunnin,  and  you  aint  usin  to 
'em.  I  knowed  you'd  be  strollin  about 
the  country  in  broad  daylight,  and  so,  I 
thought  I'd  stroll  about  some,  too,  and 
watch.'" 

It  appeared  that,  to  protect  his  young 
master  and  to  scour  the  country  in  search 
of  news,  the  faithful  servant  had  covered 
his  head  with  meal,  and  assumed  such  a 
disguise  that  even  Henry  Warden  did  not 
know  him.  He  had,  during  the  whole  of 
the  morning,  hovered  near  the  young  offi- 
cer, and  beneath  his  venerable  coat  were 
found  a  brace  of  pistols,  the  gift  of  his 
master,  and  a  very  homely  but  savage- 
looking  dirk.  It  was  easy  now  to  account 
for  the  singular  information  to  the  Tories 
which  saved  the  parson,  and  Henry  War- 
den also  understood  why  he  himself  was 
asked  in  the  morning  which  way  he  was 
going.      , 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

WARDEN    LEAVEE    ALAMANCE    AGAIN. 

With  all  their  persuasions,  the  two 
friends,  Warden  and  Caldwell,  could  not 
induce  Ben  Rust  to  leave  his  mother's 
house.  With  a  blind  obstinacy,  he  de- 
clared his  unalterable  purpose  of  remain- 


82 


ALAMANCE. 


ing  where  he  was,  provided  his  namesake, 
Ben,  were  permitted  to  keep  him  com- 
pany. 

"  He  shall,'"  said  Henry  Warden,  "and 
I  will  too,  in  life  and  in  death,  if  you  will 
not  leave." 

"  No,  you  won't,  my  Christin  friend," 
replied  Rust ;  "  it  won't  do  for  the  same 
house  to  cover  us  both." 

"How  do  you  meant"  asked  Warden. 

"  I  mean,"  answered  Ben,  "  that  though 
you're  a  good  gineral  in  a  regular-built 
continental  fight,  you  don't  know  nothin 
about  the  science  of  Tory  tactics.  Old 
Ebony  here  and  I  have  been  studyin  it  for 
years  as  hard  as  Julius  Cassar,  and,  I  tell 
you,  it's  so  monstrous  difficult  we've  only 
got  to  spellin,  as  it  were,  in  three'  sylla- 
bles. If  you  stay  here,  you'll  be  in  your 
own  way  and  in  mine  too." 

"  I  think  1  know  enough,"  said  Warden, 
"to  be  certain  that  three  men  are  stronger 
than  two,  and  that  eight  are  more  than 
twice  as  many  as  three." 

"  Praps  that's  true  in  figures,"  replied 
Ben  ;  "  but  it  won't  always  hold  good  in 
fightin.  I've  already  got  my  plans  laid, 
and  if  they  fail,  old  Ebony  and  I  will  make 
sure  of  four,  and  then  there'll  be  only  two 
Whigs  gone.  If  you  stay  you  can't  save 
us;  and,  accordiu  to  your  own  calkilation, 
its  better  to  lose  two  than  three.  You 
must  be  off  directly  it  is  dark,  and  I  ad- 
vise you  to  make  for  the  army." 

"  Mrs.  Rust,  at  least,  must  go  with  us," 
said  the  parson,  "  for  the  Tories  maj-  do 
her  an  injury." 

"  If  they  do  they'll  rue  it,"  answered 
-Major  Poll.  "  I'll  fly  from  my  house  for 
no  such  cursed  varmints.  Here  I  mean  to 
spend  this  night,  trusting  to  my  son  and 
my  own  good  rifle,  and  wo  be  to  the  man 
that  lays  hands  on  me!" 

The  parson  and  his  young  friend  War- 
den, finding  it  useless  to  argue  longer  with 
the  Rusts,  and  believing  it  best  for  them 
to  leave,  parted  from  them  at  dark ;  and 
knowing  that  no  search  would  be  made 
that  night  at  Bell's,  went  directly  there. 
They  remained  but  a  short  time,  and  be- 
fore the  dawn  of  morning  were  on  the  road 
for  the  head  quarters  of  General  Greene. 
Warden,  with  feelings  that  cannot  be  de- 
scribed, found  himself  again,  and  for  an 
indefinite  time,  leaving  the  home  of  his 
youth.  Far  different  were  his  feelings 
now  from  what  they  had  been  when,  in 
the  very  morning  of  his  life,  he  had  first 
started  to  join  the  defenders  of  his  country. 
Buoyant,  then,  with  hope,  and  strong  in 
the  untried  energies  of  mind  and  body,  he 
had  gone,  forth,  confident  of  an  early  and 
successful  termination  of  the  struggle  in 
which  he  was  about  to  engage,  with  vis- 
ions of  an  honourable  distinction,  and  of 
bright  rewards  of  love  gleaming  in  the 
vista  of  the  happy  future.     He  had  fought 


— he  had  bled — he  had  endured  hunger, 
thirst,  fatigues,  and  privations  for  years; 
and  the  situation  of  his  country  seemed  to 
be  still  more  gloomy  than  ever.  He  had 
returned  to  find  his  only  brother  dead,  his 
home  desolate,  his  mother,  and  his  father, 
and  his  sister  exiles,  his  friends  scattered; 
and  she — the  chief,  the  dearest  hope  of  his 
life — she,  whose  affection  was  to  reward 
him  for  all  his  toils — gone  forever.  As  a 
thief  in  the  night,  he  was  now  escaping, 
and  what  was  the  prospect  before  him? 
Not  fame — its  charms  had  vanished ;  not 
love — for  it  was  now  a  thing  of  memory 
only  ;  not  a  bright  and  happy  home  *o  greet 
him  on  his  return — for  that  was  gone.  For 
what,  then,  was  he  going  to  peril  himself? 
He  had  now  learned  that  hardest  of  all 
lessons,  patiently  to  submit  to  the  inscru- 
table ways  of  Providence,  and  to  labour 
without  hope,  because  He  has  made  it  our 
duty  here.  His  reverend  friend,  guessing 
at  his  thoughts,  endeavoured  to  amuse  him 
with  wise  discourse,  touching,  with  much 
tenderness  and  delicacy,  on  the  circum- 
stances of  Warden's  situation,  and  gently 
leading  his  mind  to  a  just  conception  of  the 
sublime  consolations  of  the  Christian  phi- 
losopher— consolations  which  few  expe- 
rience, and  which  none  can  appreciate,  till 
all  the  mortal  hopes  and  passions  which 
support  them  have  left  them,  and  the  pure 
mind,  like  the.  pyramids  in  the  sands  of 
Egypt,  stands  in  its  now  solitary  and  miked 
majesty,  self-relying  and  self-sustained. 
Conversing  on  such  matters,  Warden  re- 
marked that  he  believed  he  had  still  about 
him  some  verses  which  he  had  composed 
years  ago,  and  which,  as  it  was  now  light, 
he  would  read  by  his  friend's  permission. 

"Certainly,"  said  the  parson,  "1  would 
be  pleased  to  hear  them,  for  I  have  myself 
been  a  dabbler  in  rhymes." 

"  1  was  young  when  1  wrote  them,"  said 
Warden,  "  very  young,  and  you  must  ex- 
cuse the  egotism.     But  here  they  are  : 

'WHEN  TIME  ITS  SILENT  WORK  HAS 
DONE. 
When  time  its  silent  work  has  done, 

And  years  have  rolled  their  changes  by, 
When,  like  the  early  mists,  have  gone 

The  passions  from  our  mental  sky  ; 
When  all  the  hopes  and  fears  that  now  _ 

Throw  lights  and  shadows  o'er  the  mind. 
Have  vanish'd  from  the  world's  stein  brow., 

And  left  it  in  its  bleak  outline; 
When  cold  reality  shall  rise 

With  wither'd  iimbs,  in  sable  serge, 
Where  now  gay  phantoms  cheat  the  eyes 

Upon  the  far  horizon's  verge  ; 
When  flowers  have  faded  from  the  way, 

And  all  the  glitt'ring,  laughing  band, 
Who  made  our  morning's  path  so  gay. 

Have  left  us  on  Life's  waste  of  sand, — 
Where  then  must  look  the  heart  for  rest, 

On  what  firm  prop  its  burdens  slay  ? 
What  then  will  soothe  the  aching  breast! 

Where  will  the  soul  its  thirst  allay.' 
Oh'    then  will  fall  thai,  giddy  throng 

Who  feed  on  thoughts  of  vanity, 


ALAMANCE. 


63 


And  Life's  sad  cares  for  them  foo  strong, 

Existence  will  a  burden  be; 
And  panting  'neath  a  tiresome  load 

Of  foliies  changed  to  grim  despair, 
Their  fainting  forms  will, strew  the  road, 

Their  bootless  cries  will  fill  the  air! 
Then  wilt  thou,  like  yon  tireless  sun, 

Break  from  obscuring  clouds,  my  soul, 
'With  all  thy  travelling  glories  on,' 

And  speed  thee  to  thy  destined  goal ! 
Then  mute  will  be  the  sland'rer's  tongue, 

Vile  hate  upon  itself  will  p.ey, 
The  envious  heart,  with  madness  stung, 

Will  flv  the  withering  light  of  day ; 
Whilst  thou,  self-poised  and  sell'-sn.'i.ain'd, 

Thy  every  foeinan  put  to  flip'1.., 
Will  stride,  with  all  thy  Do--ers  unchain'd, 

Still  onward  in  thy  ;.uin  of  light !'  " 

"  Vz'sy  respectable,"  said  the  doctor ; 
"but  was  not  the  vanity  of  ambition  here 
taking  the  place  of  other  lighter  vanities !" 

"I  will  not  say  that  it  was  not,"  an- 
swered Warden  ;  "  for  I  know  1  ,had  de- 
ceived myself.  I  trust  my  eyes  are  at 
last  open,  and  I  see,  indeed,  that  all  is 
'vanity  of  vanities.'" 

"  All  things  earthly  are,"  replied  the  doc- 
tor ;  "  there's  nothing  true  but  Heaven." 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

"  A  spirit  of  health,  or  goblin  damned." 

Hamlet. 

William  Glutson  and  his  friends  from 
Iris  fathers  were  not  without  a  feeling  of 
awe  wh^n  they  entered  the  old  church  of 
Alamance  on  a  moonless  night.    Conscious 
that  their  intentions  were  evil,  hardened 
as  they  were  in  iniquity,  they  still  had  a 
superstitious  dread  of  churches  and  grave- 
yards at  night,  and,  when  near  them  at 
such  a  time,  feared  a  visitation  from  some 
terrible  inhabitant  of  the  land  of  spirits. 
They  waited  some  time  for  the  two  who 
were  with  Glutson   the  day  before,  and 
•who  were  by  no  means  anxious  to  be  the 
first  aMhe  church.     These  latter  came  at 
last,  and,  mustering  courage  sufficient  to 
open  a  door,  called   out,  with  their  eyes 
shut,  to  know  if  any  one  were  present. 
'They  were  answered  by  William  Glutson, 
■whom,  with  his  company  seated  near  the 
pulpit,  they  were  bold  enough  to  join.    The 
Tories  chose  to  assemble  and  arrange  their 
plans  in  the  house  to  avoid  the  keen  night 
air,  and  also,  perhaps,  to  be  out  of  sight 
of  the  white  slabs  that  gleamed  with  spec- 
tral lustre  in  the  neighbouring  cemetery. 
Still,  they  were  by  no  means  easy  in  their 
location,  and   as  an  occasional  blast  of 
wind  moaned  through  the  doors  and  rat- 
tled the  loose  panes  of  glass  in  the  crazy 
windows,  cold  shudders   ran  over  them, 
«.nd  they  pressed   more  closely  together. 
"These  fears,  however,  gradually  left  them, 
snd  they  were  beginning  to  swagger  and 
tooast  of  their  former  exploits,  and  make 
themselves  merry  at  the  expense  of  their 
expected  victims,  when  suddenly  one  of 


them  exclaimed,  "  What's  that?"  There 
is  nothing  so  contagious  as  terror,  and  the 
whole  band,  instantly  electrified  with  fright, 
hr.ddied  against  each  other,  while  they  cast 
fearful  glance::  round  the  v.~«llo  of.  '-he 
church.  They  saw  nothing  but  the  shad- 
owy ouilines  cf  the  great  pillars  that  sup- 
ported the  gallery,  and  the  pulpit  that 
looked  up  near  them,  vfllrile  the  sighing 
and  rumbling  of  a  slight  and  fitful  breeze 
was  the  only  sound  to  be  heard. 

"  It  was  only  the  creaking  of  the  doors," 
at  length  spoke  Glutson,  with  an  effort  to 
command  a  careless  tone ;  "  who's  afraid 
of  an  empty  old  church  1" 

" Tm  not  afraid  of  it,"  said  the  one  who 
had  given  the  alarm,  "nor  of  all  its  con- 
tents of  ghosts  and  devils.  But  I  am  afraid 
of  Whigs,  when  I  can't  see  them  ;  for  they 
might  kill  me  before  I  know  where  they 
are.  I'm  certain  I  heard  one  sneeze,  and 
all  I  want  is  just  to  see  the  whites  of  his 
eyes,  and  then  I'll  feel  at  home." 

Each  one,  now  ashamed  at  having  been 
alarmed,  began  to  bluster  and  swear;  and 
one  of  them,  bolder  than  his  compeers, 
had  the  daring  courage  to  leave  them 
several  yards,  searching  the  neighbouring 
pews,  and  calling  on  various  noted  Whigs 
by  name  to  come  out  and  fight  like  men. 
While  he  was  thus  engaged  a  terrific  and 
unearthly  scream,  wild  as  the  howl  of  a 
legion  of  devils,  burst  over  the  heads  of 
the  affrighted  Tories,  and  froze  them  to 
their  seats.  Again,  wilder  and  louder,  that 
howl  rent  the  air,  a  light  flashed  through 
the  church,  and  a  hideous  and  gigantic 
figure,  with  eyes  and  teeth  of  fire,  rose 
from  the  pulpit.  At  the  same  time,  and 
from  the  same  place,  two  ghostly  figures, 
clad  in  white  shrouds,  issued,  as  it  seemed, 
swift  as  the  wind,  while  a  deep,  sepulchral 
voice  cried  out,  "  Bring  the  sinners  to  me, 
their  time  has  come  !" 

The  astounded  Tories, unnerved  by  their 
fears,  dropped  their  guns,  and,  muttering 
broken  prayers  and  promises  of  reforma- 
tion, endeavoured  to  escape  as  fast  as  their 
palsied  limbs  would  carry  them,  running 
against  each  other,  and  falling  over  chairs 
and  benches.  The  figures  in  white,  emit- 
ting a  sulphurous  odour,  were  soon  down 
among  them,  and,  seizing  three  of  the  fu- 
gitives, bound  them  with  their  hands  be- 
hind their  backs,  and  placed  thin  bandages 
over  their  eyes.  The  others  gained  the 
doors,  and  taking  different  roads,  and  aim- 
ing at  no  particular  place,  made  off  at  the 
top  of  their  speed,  their  excited  and  dis- 
ordered imaginations  converting  every 
dead  tree  and  phosphoric  stump  into  a 
ghost  or  goblin,  while  every  rustle  among 
the  leaves  acted  as  a  spur  to  their  jaded 
energies.  The  three  who  were  taken  suf- 
fered themselves,  trembling  and  power- 
less, to  be  fastened  together  and  led  back 
near  the  pulpit,  being  able  to  distinguish 


84 


ALAMANCE. 


only  the  dim  outlines  of  the  terrible  being 
above  them,  the  horrors  of  his  face  being 
magnified  tenfold  by  the  ^indistinctness  of 
their  vision.  One  of  thev  apparitions  now 
left  them  in  charge  of  his  ghostly  com- 
peer, and  immediately  the  deep  voice  from 
the  pulpit  called  out, 
"  Who  are  these  V 

"Your  names  are  desired,"  squeaked, in 
shrill  and  harsh  tones,  the  jailer  of  the 
Tories. 

They  were  given  as   Peter  Simmons, 
William  Glutson,  and  Richard  Sikes. 
The  Voice,  solemnly. — "  Richard  !" 
Sikes. — "  Yes,  sir,   good  devil,  I   hear 
you." 

The  Voice.— "  Richard!  Sinner!  thou 
cursed  and  ungodly  youth,  call  me  not 
good.  I  am  the  father  of  evil — the  great 
beast  with  seven  heads  and  ten  horns,  and 
have  come  to  put  you  in  my  wallet,  and 
carry  you  to  the  lake  of  fire  and  brim- 
stone. Don't  you  see  my  raw  head  and 
bloody  bones'?" 

Sikes. — "Oh  good,  merciful  gentleman 
devil,  please  have  mercy  on  me  this  one 
time,  and  I'll  .never  sin  anjr  more.  I  never 
hated  you  nor  abused  you,  like  some  peo- 
ple, but  always  defended  you,  and  said 
you  were  a  good  Christian  and  an  honest 
man,  and  that  you  didn't  have  a  fair  chance. 
For  G — 's  sake  let  me  off  now,  and  I'll 
serve  you  faithfully." 

A  horrid  yell,  like  the  laugh  of  a  demon, 
followed  this  speech,  and  the  Voice  con- 
tinued, 

"You've  served  me  already,  Richard, 
and  that's  why  I  want  to  take  you  with 
me.  You  shall  dance  with  me  in  the  fiery 
furnace,  sleep  on  a  red-hot  gridiron,  and 
drink  my  health  with  melted  lead.-  Schow- 
oo  !  won't  it  be  fine'?" 

Sikes. — "  Thank  you,  good  devil,  thank 
you.  I'd  rather  stay  here,  if  it's  the  same 
to  you.  I'm  a  poor  man,  and  have  nobody 
to  work  for  me  but  myself." 

The  Voice,  impressively. — "  Richard ! 
how  came  you  in  such  unrighteous  com- 
pany }" 

Sikes. — "  Squire  Gluts6n  and  his  son 
William  hired  me  to  work  for  them,  and 
told  me  the  king  would  thank  me  for  it." 

"You  lie!  you  sneaking  villain!"  ex- 
claimed William  Glutson,  beginning  to 
entertain  strange  suspicions.  "  You  silly 
fool,  don't  you  know  whose  hands  you're 
in  ]" 

He  began  to  struggle  to  release  him- 
self ;  but  soon  another  hand,  with  an  iron 
clutch,  had  hold  of  him,  and  a  voice  said 
in  his  ear,  "  Bill  Glutson !  a  pistol  is  at 
your  breast,  and  if  you  call  a  name,  or 
make  another  effort  to  get  away,  you're  a 
dead  man.  You  know  me ;  submit  and 
obey !" 

With  this  admonition,  the  Tories  were 
led  off  a  few  miles,  to  the  heart  of  a  large 


forest,  and  there  Glutson  and  Sikes  (the 
latter  of  whom  had  made  promises  of  ref- 
ormation) were  firmly  secured  to  separate 
trees.  They  were  now  completely  blind- 
folded ;  while  the  bandages  were  taken  off 
the  eyes  of  Simmons,  and  he  stripped  of 
all  his  garments  but  his  shirt  and  panta- 
loons, and  these  latter  rolled  and  fastened 
above  his  knees.  A  sapling,  from  which 
the  limbs  had  been  cut,  and  the  bark  taken 
off  for  some  twenty  feet  from  the  roots, 
stood  by,  and,  pointing  to  it,  one  of  his 
keepers  thus  addressed  Simmons  : 

"  That's  what  we  call  the  '  Coon's  sap- 
lin,'  Pete.  When  you  climb  to  that  ere 
limb,  jist  up  there  you're  a  safe  coon,  and 
may  travel.  Ebony,  keep  your  gun  cocked; 
and  now,  my  Christin  friend  (turning  to 
Simmons),  to  assist  you,  I'll  tickle  your 
legs  while  you  climb.  Hangin's  the"  for- 
feit if  you  don't  git  up.     So  here  goes  !" 

The  Tory,  knowing  it  was  no  time  to 
beg,  started  up  the  tree,  hugging  it  with  a 
deathlike  grasp;  but  before  he  had  ascend- 
ed far,  several  keen  cuts  across  his  ankles 
with  hickory  switches,  relaxed  the  press- 
ure of  his  legs,  and  dtwn  he  came.  Again 
and  again  he  was  forced  to  make  the  ex- 
periment, and  always  with  the  same  re- 
sult, the  switches  being  applied  to  his 
back,  and  shoulders  with  vigour  and  vi- 
vacity as  he  started  up  and  came  down. 
At  length,  being  entirely  exhausted,  and 
smarting  all  over  with  gashes  from  which 
the  blood  was  trickling,  Simmons  begged  | 
for  mercy.  "  It's  no  use  cryih,"  said  his 
tormentor ;  "  one  of  two  things  is  got  to 
be  done.  You  must  git  to  that  limb  your- 
self, or  I  and  old  Ebony  must  lift  you  to  it 
with  a  rope  round  your  neck.  Which  do 
you  prefer]"  The  unfortunate  Peter  chose 
the  former;  and,  after  resting  a  while,  made 
another  and  final  effort.  Swift  and  furious 
came  the  blows  over  his  back  and  arms ; 
but  these  were  protected,  to  some  extent, 
by  his  shirt,  and  Simmons  was  climbing 
for  his  life.  His  energies  seemed  to  in- 
crease as  he  went  up,  and  he  was  six  or 
seven  feet  above  the  ground  when  a  few 
sharp  jerks  across  his  naked  feet  and  an- 
kles brought  him  rapidly  to  the  earth. 
He  was  considerably  bruised  by  his  hill ; 
and,  rendered  desperate  by  his  sufferings, 
asked  to  be  hung  at  once.  The  penalty 
was,  however,  remitted,  and  Simmons  was 
again  Blindfolded  and  fastened  to  a  tree. 

It  now  came  Glutson's  time  to  receive 
his  dues  ;  and,  accordingly,  he  was  led  out, 
his  eyes  uncovered,  and  thus  addressed: 

"  Bill  Glutson,  your  time  has  come  at 
last !     I  never  thought  I  would  have  to  do  . 
this  job ;  but  you  have  forced  me  to  it. 
What  have  you  got  to  say  why  you  should 
not  die  ?" 

"  I've  got  nothing  to  say  or  repent  of.'* 
sulkily  answered  Glutson. 

"  Bill,  it  won't  do  to  be  so  stout  abo«t 


ALAMANCE. 


85 


matters,"  said  the  other,  "  and  you  know 
it  You  needn't  think,  that  because  I 
spared  Pete  Simmons,  that  you,  who  are 
the  greatest  sinner  of  all,  will  escape. 
Answer  me  now,  on  your  life  :  Have  you 
viot  hired  others  to  rob  the  patriots  1  Did 
you  not  assist  in  beating  Esther  Bell,  as 
she  was  going  to  see  the  sick  1  Did  you 
not  lay  plans  to  catch  preacher.  Caldwell, 
and  deliver  him  to  the  British  1  Did  you 
not  lay  in  wait  to  kill  me  and  Henry  War- 
den ]  Have  you  not  ordered  George  War- 
den's fences  to  be  burned — his  house  rob- 
bed— and  assisted  in  carrying  away  his 
negroes  ?-  Did-you  not  murder  my  cousin, 
Betsy  Deans!  Have  you -not  been  a  vile 
Tory,  opposing  your  own  country,  and 
robbing,  beating,  and  murdering  its  de- 
fenders 1  This  is  the  indictment ;  what 
say  you  to  it  V 

''■  I'm  not  bound  to  answer  j^our  ques- 
tions," replied  Bill,  "  and  you  have  no 
right  to  make  me." 

"Bill  Glutson,  I  "have  told  you  your 
time  is  come,  and  you  know  I  don't  break 
ray  word.  We  have  played  together,  Bill, 
gonq  to  school  together,  and  have  known 
each  other 'since  we  were  children.  I 
never  had  any  ambition  against  you  ;  I 
never  wished  you  any  harm  ;  and  yet  you 
seduced  my  cousin,  promising  to  'marry 
her  ;  and  when  she  got.  in  a  bad  way,  and 
was  heart-broken  and  threatened  to  ex- 
pose you,  you  took  her  up  on  your  horse, 
telling  her  you  were  going  to  carry  her  to 
your  father's,  and  marry  her ;  and  when 
you  got  to  little  Alamance  you.  threw  her 
in  the  water  and  held  her  under  it  till  she 
was  drowned."  The  speaker  and  Glutson 
were  both  affected  ;  and,  after  a  pause,  the 
former  continued :  "  You've  also  sought 
my  life,  Bill,  and  intended  to  hang  me  to- 
night. You  intended  to  kill  Henry  War- 
den, and  Esther  Bell,  and  you  have  led  on 
the  malignant  Tories  in  all  their  rascalities. 
You  must  die !  Kneel  down  and  pray  for 
once  in  your  life,  for  in  twenty  minutes 
your  soul  will  be  in  eternity." 

"  I  cannot  pray,  now,"  said  Glutson,  pit- 
eously ;  "  give  me  till  to-morrow  to  think 
over  my  sins  and  repent." 

li  You'll  never  see  the  sun  rise  again," 
answered  his  executioner ;  "  will  you  pre- 
pare ?-" 

"  Give  me,  then,  two  hours,  for  old  friend- 
ship's sake,  just  two  hours,  and  I'll  ask  no 
more." 

"  Will  you  pray  before  you*  die  ]"  de- 
manded the  person  implored.  "  Come, 
Ebony,  he's  as  ready  as  he'll  ever  be. 
Let's  make  a  finish  at  once." 

"  Oh,  for  G — d's  sake,  for  mercy's  sake, 
pity  me,"  cried  Glutson,  now  frantic  with 
terror ;  i(  do  not  murder  me  in  cold  blood. 
It  will  be  murder  if  you  kill  me  now.  You 
may  beat  me  every  day,  put  me  in  a  dun- 
geon, and  feed  me  on  bread  and  water : 


you  may  have  all  my  property,  and  all  my 
father's.  I'll  assist  you  in  defending  the 
country  ;  I'll  tell  you  where  all  the  Tories 
hide,  and  help  you  to  hang  them,  if  you'll 
just  let  me  live.  For  your  own  sake,  for 
your  mother's  sake -" 

"  Mention  not  my  mother  here !"  ex- 
claimed the  other,  "  nor  my  name,  or  this 
pistol  will  do  the  business  at  once.  It 
will  not  be  murder *to  hang  you;  and  if  it 
was,  I  have  what  I  consider  good  authority. 
I  ask  once  more,  will  you  pray  V 

"  I  cannot  now  !  I  cannot  for  a  while  ! 
Give  me  just  half  an  hour." 

"  The  time's  up,  and  five  minutes  over," 
was  the  answer ;  "  here,  Ebony,  take  the 
end  of  this  rope  and  fasten  it  to  that  limb 
up  there." 

The  person  addressed  did  as  he  was  bid, 
his  coadjutor  holding  up  in  his  powerful 
arms  the  trembling  and  struggling  body  of 
the  Tory. 

"  Is  it  fastened  V  asked  the  Whig  on  the 
ground. 

"  Yes,  sir,  all  ready." 

"  Bill  Glutson,  farewell !  and  may  God 
have  mercy  on  your  soul." 

The  Tory  was  about  to  make  an  effort 
to  speak,  but  the  first  word  was  choked  in 
its  passage,  and  his  writhing  limbs  were 
dangling  in  the  air.  In  a  few  moments 
the  convulsive  efforts  of  his  body  ceased, 
and  a  slight  tremulous  motion  indicated 
that  the  flame  of  life  was  flickering  in  its 
socket,  when  the  rope  was  cut,  and  he  fell 
heavily  and  senseless  to  the  earth. 

The  binding  around  his  neck  was  imme- 
diately undone,  and  such  appliances  used 
as  were  calculated  to  restore  his  suspend- 
ed animation ;  but  as  he  began  to  give 
signs  of  returning  life,  the  incoherent  words 
which  he  feebly  articulated,  and  the  wild, 
rolling,  and  vacant  stare  of  his  eyes,  showed 
that  reason  had  deserted  her  throne,  and 
that  his  brain  was  seething  with  fever  and 
delirium.  He  evidently  thought  himself 
in  the  abodes  of  the  damned,  and  that  the 
giant  trees  around  him  were  the  monstrous 
and  shageless  tenants  of  those  dismal  re- 
gions. His  father's  house  was  not  far  off, 
and  thitherward  he  was  carried  by  one  of 
his  executioners,  entreating  him  to  drive 
off  the  ghost  of  Betsy  Deans.  After  pla- 
cing him  in  the  yard,  the  Whig  returned  for 
his  companion  and  his  prisoners,  and,  ap- 
proaching to  within  a  few  hundred  yards 
of  Glutson's  mansion,  its  tenants  were 
roused  from  their  slumbers  by  a  succes- 
sion of  savage  howls,  and  beheld,  with 
speechless  terror,  the  awful  visitant  ol 
the  flaming  eyes  and  teeth.  At  the  same 
time  a  fierce  and  terrible  voice  pro- 
claimed, 

"  Wo,  wo  to  thee,  Nathan  Glutson  !  You 
are  a  murderer,  a  swindler,  and  a  thief;  a 
liar,  a  hypocrite,  and  a  villain  !  Your  sins 
are  all  known  to  me,  and  soon  I'll  call 


8G 


ALAMANCE. 


to  settle  your  account !     Repent,  for  ven- 
geance is  at  nana  :": 

The  house  of  Glutson  became  a  scene 
of  lamentation  and  wretchedness.  The 
tales  of  cthcrc,  the  evidence  ox  ins  own 
senses,  and  the  condition  of  his  son — the 
pride  and  hope  of  his  house — satisfied  Na- 
than that  an  avenging  spirit  had  been 
abroad.  William  became  a  raving  maniac, 
and  seemed  to  be  tormented  by  furies,  till 
at  last  his  malady  became  so  frightful  that 
no  one  could  bear  to  be  in  his  presence. 
A  fierce  and  incurable  fever  preyed  on 
him  night  and  day,  and  the  phantoms  of 
his  stricken  conscience,  in  the  shape  of 
hideous  demons,  mocked  at  his  sufferings, 
till  at  last  he  wasted  away,  and  went  to 
realize  those  untold  and  unimagined  hor- 
rors of  which  he  had  here  a  faint  foretaste. 
These  events  put  afloat  a  thousand  rumours 
at  Alamance.  Many  of  the  Tories  believed 
that  the  evil  one  had  been  made  visible 
among  them,  while  some  very  pious  old 
ladies  among  the  Whigs  devoutly  thanked 
the  Almighty  for  answering  their  prayers, 
in  sending  to  them  an  angel  of  deliverance. 
The  shrewd  patriots  held  their  peace,  and 
Esther  Bell  and  Anne  Warden  cautioned 
Black  Dan  never  to  let  his  prisoner,  Sim- 
mons, into  the  secrets  of  the  huge  gourd 
with  teeth  and  eye-holes,  and  which,  with 
a  lighted  candle  in  it,  looked  so  terrible  at 
night.  Dan  treasured  the  gourd  as  the 
gift  of  a  friend,  kept  his  prisoner  close, 
and,  occasionally,  at  night,  assisted  by 
his  fellow-servants,  exercised  him  at  the 
"Coon's  saplin."  Amid  all  the  specula- 
tions among  the  unknowing  ones  at  Ala- 
mance, two  things  were  reduced  to  cer- 
tainties, namely,  that  the  two  Bens  and 
Dick  Sikes  had  disappeared,  and  that  the 
Whigs,  for  a  season  at  least,  had  rest  from 
their  enemies. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

"  Whoever  has  been  once  on  the  sand- 
hills of  North  Carolina  will  not  forget 
them  soon.  The  country  is  not  hilly,  as 
the  term  applied  to  it  would  seem  to  indi- 
cate ;  but  an  unbroken  plain  stretches  round 
the  whole  horizon,  and  the  face  of  the 
earth,  never  clothed  with  verdure,  and  thin- 
ly covered  with  leaves,  gleams  like  the 
desolation  of  perpetual  snow.  Still,  it  has 
its  beauties  and  its  attractions  peculiar  to 
itself,  and  which  endears  it  to  the  dwellers 
there.  There  are  occasional  mounds  of 
drifted  sand  to  relieve  the  monotony  of  the 
plain;  near  its  streams  the  air  is  laden 
with  the  fragrance  of  delicious  flowers, 
and  at  all  seasons  the  evergreen  still  wears 
its  summer  robes.  Nature  seems  ever  to 
be  in  a  state  of  soft  repose,  and  the  hazy 
atmosphere  invites  to  that  dreamy  listless- 
ness,  that  middle  ground  between  the  hard 


realities  of  life  and  the  wild  phantoms 
cf  :l?°p,  cc  pIcTvSaiii  and  soothing  to  the 
contemplative  mint..  Thp  crowni'v-  £■•}- 
ry  cf  «'.io  country,  nowever,  is  its  forest  of 
pine.  There  are  no  thickets  of  brush- 
wood, no  tangled  webs  of  vide,  no  dwarfs 
nor  misshapen  woody  monsters  in  this  no- 
ble family  of  trees.  Grouped  in  squares, 
circles,  parallelograms,  and  an  endless  va- 
riety of  fanciful  figures,  they  rise  high  and 
straight  from  the  earth,  some  with  the 
stately  grace  of  matrons,  and  others  with 
the  elegant  symmetry  and  lighter  propor- 
tions of  youthful  maidens,  while  the  long 
and  slender  leaves  that,  like  dishevelled 
hair,  depend  in  rich  luxuriance  from  their 
neatly-rounded  summits,  justify  the  figure 
used.  Few  birds  are  seen  among  them ; 
and  had  Ovid  told  us  that  to  these,  and  not 
to  poplars,  the  Heliades  were  changed,  the 
constant  moan  heard  in  their  midst  might 
well  be  taken  for  the  endless  wail  of  the 
sisters  for  their  rash  brother  Phaeton." 

Thus,  with  his  usual  felicitous  style, 
does  the  master  begin  the  second  volume 
of  his  notes,  and  introduces  us  upon  a  new 
scene  of  action.  In  one  of  these  groves, 
and  not  far  from  the  ancient  village  of 
Cross  Creek,  now  the  town  of  Fayetteville, 
there,  was  a  noted  spring,  visible  a  long 
way  off  by  the  green  grass  that  fringed  it3 
waters.  Close  by  the  spring  was  a  circu- 
lar mound,  with  perpendicular  sides,  about 
ten  feet  high,  and  one  hundred  and  fifty- 
yards  in  circumference.  It  was  ascended 
by  steps  cut  in  several  places  and  covered 
with  seats  of  plank,  which  were  fastened 
in  the  sides  of  the  stately  pines.  This 
place  was  often  resorted  to  in  summer 
and  autumn  by  parties  of  pleasure,  and 
was  called  "  The  Lover's  Knowe,"  from, 
the  fact  of  its  being  a  famous  trysting- 
place,  and  the  scene  of  many  a  courtship. 
Incidents  of  this  sort  had  given  a  name  to 
every  locality  on  and  about  the  terrace. 
There  was,  for  instance,  a  small  tree  called 
"  Sandy's  Hope,"  because  the  mistress  of 
one  Sandy  Cunningham  had  listened  en- 
couragingly to  his  suit,. while  with  a  pen- 
knife she  was  trimming  the  pine,  then  a 
mere  twig.  "  Walker's  Nose,"  was  a  largo 
root,  on  which  one  Angus  Walker  sat 
at  the  feet  of  his  lady-love  \vhen  s^ia  put 
his  proboscis  out  of  joint,  or,  in  other 
words,  discarded  him  ;  and  "  The  Stane- 
Bane"  was  a  rock  where  angry  lovers 
retired  to  quarrel  and  settle  their  difficul- 
ties. Not  far  froin  this  latter,  and  just  on 
the  western  edge  of  the  mound,  was  a 
place  called  "  The  Kelpy's  Seat,"  a  name 
which  it  held  even  within  the  recollection 
of  a  Scotch  lady  who  is  yet  in  the  prime 
of  life.  It  was  so  called  because  it  was 
the  favourite  seat  of  one  who,  for  a  short 
while,  mingled  in  the  society  of  that 
region,  and  who  formed  few  acquaintan- 
ces and  still  fewer  intimacies  there.     Al 


A  L  AM  A  N  C  E. 


67 


all  Jhe  parties,  by  daylight  or  moonlight, 
£t  ihi*  T/uroi-'o  |Tnowp..  the  stranger  sat  still 
and  silent  on  that  seat;  and  even  when 
music  and  the  dance  put  nfe  and  motion 
into  the  oldest,  that  stranger  still  sat  mute 
and  sad,  gazing  at  the  far  horizon,  or  look- 
ing up  through  the  boughs  of  the  leafy 
trees  at  the  full  orbed  moon,  or  at  some 
distant  and  lonely  star.  Tartans,  plaids, 
and  plumes,  though  new  to  her,  excited 
little  interest,  and  equally  were  neglected 
the  wild  strains  of  bagpipes  and  harps. 
She  was  usually  dressed  in  deep  mourning, 
and  as  she  would  sit  with  her  head  thrown 
back  against  the  tree,  at  whose  roots  was 
the  seat,  her  hands  crossed  upon  her  lap, 
and  the  moon  beaming  full  in  her  pale  and 
upturned  face,  she  seemed  an  ethereal  per- 
sonation of  that  profound,  tender,  and 
nameless  sorrow  which  sometimes  dwells 
in  the  breasts  of  earth's  finest  mould.  She 
came  mysteriously  into  the  country ;  her 
conduct  and  manners  were  mysterious, 
and  her  history  a  mystery.  All  knew  that. 
she  was  beautiful  as  an  angel,  meek  as  a 
saint,,  inoffensive  as  a  dove  ;  yet  whence 
she  came  and  what  her  business,  were 
things  known  only  to  a  few.  Great  curi- 
osity was  of  course  excited,  but  specula- 
tion exhausted  itself,  and  the  strange  maid- 
en was  still  wrapped  in  obscurity. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

On  a  pleasant  evening,  late  in  autumn, 
the  strange  lady  and  a  female  companion  of 
about  the  same  age  were  sitting  on  the 
Lover's  Knowe.  The  stranger,  clad  in 
mourning  weeds,  was  gazing,  sad  and  ab- 
stracted, on  the  northwestern  horizon, 
while  her  companion,  whose  light  eyes, 
flaxen  hair,  and  short  plaid  dress  displayed 
the  Scotchwoman,  kept  np  a  continual 
humming  conversation,  seemingly  but  lit- 
tle concerned  whether  she  had  a  listener 
i  or  not. 

"  And  ye'U  be  glowar'n  at  the  west  till  ye 
stare  yer  e'enoot,  I  am  thinking,"'  at  length 
said  the  latter,  with  some  impatience. 

"  I  must  beg  your  pardon,  Nannie,"  said 
the  other,  "  for  not  paying  better  attention 
to  your  tales  of  fairies  and  kelpies.  My 
heart,  you  know,  is  far  distant  from  here, 
and  I  was  just  now  fancying  myself  in  my 
former  happy  home." 

"  And  is  na  my  heart  in  the  heelands  o' 
bonny  Scotland,  which  I  maun  never  see 
again  1"  answered  Nannie  Scott;  "and  are 
not  all  my  kith  and  kindred  in  the  auld  kirk- 
yard  there,  and  I  a  puir,  lone  lassie  wi'  nei- 
ther friends  nor  waurldly  gear?  An'  yet 
I  am  as  blithe  as  the  mavis  in  spring." 

'•The  linnet  would  have  been  more 
proper,  Nannie,  for  you  sing  your  sweet- 
est notes  in  the  gloomiest  weather.     But 


how  can  you  say  you  have  no  friends, 
when  you  are  among  your  own  peoole, 
and  every  Doay  is  Kina  10  you'  My  c'^se 
;5  entirety  aifferenl,  and  I  nave  no  friend 
here." 

"  And  am  I  not  your  friend,  dear  ladie?" 
asked  Nannie.  "  It's  true,  I  am  a  puir,  kin- 
tra  haverel,  but  I  hae  a  douce  and  feekfu' 
heart,  and  ane  that's  true  to  you." 

"And  so,  indeed,  you  have,  my  friend," 
replied  Edith  Mayfield,  "  and  I  am  sorry 
you  misunderstood  me.  From  the  time  I 
met  with  you  at  that  odious  place  of  Glut- 
son's,  you  have  ever  been  kind  and  true  to 
me ;  and,  but  for  you,  I  know  not  what 
should  have  become  of  me.  On  your 
faithful  bosom  I  rely  as  on  a  sister's." 

"  An'  yet,"  said  Nannie,  "  ye  would  gang 
an'  leave  me  this  very  een,  an'  ye  could 
have  yer  ain  way  anent  the  matter." 

"  It  is  not  you  I  wish  to  leave,"  answered 
Edith,  "  but  these  hateful  people.  As  you 
know — for  I  have  already  told  you— -I  was 
stolen  away  against  my  will.  You  saw 
that  when  they  forced  me  into  the  carriage 
with  you  that  night  at  Glutson's.  Ross 
has  stolen  me  away  from  my  parents  and 
my  home,  and  put  me  under  the  care  of 
his  old  aunt,  who,  as  you  know,  watches 
me  strictly,  and  does  nothing  but  ding-dong 
me  day  and  night  about  her  relation.  They 
expected  to  wean  me  from  Alamance  and 
all  its  memories,  and  that  my  dislike  to  Ross 
would  finally  give  way ;  but  it  has  grown 
stronger  and  stronger,  and  they  have  found 
that  a  thousand  years  of  confinement  would  ' 
not  bend  me  to  their  purposes.  They  have, 
therefore,  I  do  believe,  resolved  to  force 
me,  and  it  was  to  talk  with  you  on  this 
very  subject  that  I  brought  you  here.  I 
must  escape  ;  I  must  leave  this  very  week, 
or  be  ruined  forever.  And  why  should 
you  not  go  with  me?  I  observed  the 
roads  as  we  came  along — I  have  talked 
with  old  Duncan,  the  piper,  and  believe  he 
will  assist  us.     These  are  my  plans ■" 

"  Whisht,  hiney !  is  na  that  Alan  Ross?" 

The  person  named  was  just  in  sight; 
and,  soon  coming  to  where  the  ladies  were, 
Nannie  Scott  withdrew  to  the  farther  side 
of  the  knowe,  though  Edith  entreated  her 
not  to  quit  her  side.  "  A  favorable  omen, 
ma  chere  amie,  a  favorable  omen !"  ex- 
claimed Ross,  gayly.  "  1  came  on  a  mes- 
sage of  love,  and  I  find  you  at  the  Lover's 
Knowe,  and  your  attendant  leaves  you  at 
my  approach.  May  the  god  of  eloquence 
inspire  my  tongue  to  speak  worthily  the 
tale  you  seem  disposed  to  hear!" 

"  You  are  mistaken,  sir,''  said  Edith,  "if 
you  suppose  you  can  say  but  one  thing 
that  is  pleasant  to  me.  It  was  not  by  my 
will  that  my  friend  left  my  side,  or  that  I 
see  you  to-day.  Would  to  God  our  meet- 
ings depended  on  my  choice  !" 

"  In  that  case,  fair  lady,  the  light  of  your 
glorious    beauty  would  be    hid   from  the 


88 


ALAMANCE. 


eyes  of  your  most  devoted  friend.  But, 
thank  Heaven,  wilful  woman  cannot  al- 
ways have  her  way  ;  and  it  is  well  for  her 
that  she  cannot.  I  have  no  doubt  that, 
if  it  were  left  to  you,  you  would  refuse 
an  offer  which  I  am  now  going  to  make, 
and  which  all  the  world  would  say  is  for 
your  benefit." 

Edith  made  no  reply ;  but,  turning  her 
averted  eyes  upon  him,  he  continued  :  "  I 
have  at  length  hit  upon  a  proposition  that 
ought  to  be  agreeable  to  you,  for  it  will 
save  your  life  and  ensure  your  happiness." 

The  speaker  again  paused ;  but  Edith  ex- 
pressing no  curiosity,  he  went  on :  "You 
seem  to  have  so  little  confidence  in  me, 
that  you  will  not  even  deign  to  enquire 
what  I  mean.  Well,  I  will  tell  you  at 
once,  and  you  will  see  if  I  was  not  right 
for  once.  Your  health  is  declining — Henry 
Warden  is  dead,  as  1  have  long  ago  proved 
to  you  by  his  neighbors,  William  Glutson, 
and  others — and  you  will  linger  out  in 
America  a  wretched  life,  and  perhaps  fill 
an  early  grave." 

"  Oh,  merciful  God,  grant  that  it  may  be 
so!"  exclaimed  Edith,  passionately, -the 
tears  filling  her  eyes.  "  Oh,  grant  that  I 
may  soon  rest  by  his  side,  and  my  soul  be 
with  his  in  heaven  !  Base  man,  when  you 
brought  this  news  before,  you  forced  from 
me  the  most  sacred  secret  of  my  heart.  I 
told  you  then,  and  I  tell  you  now,  that  the 
ashes  of  Henry  Warden  dead,  are  dearer 
to  me  than  all  the  living  world  besides, 
»  and  never,  never  shall  I  quit  the  country 
where  they  repose  !  I  ask  you  again,  if 
you  have  yet  one  spark  of  honour  in  you, 
to  speak  of  him  no  more  to  me,  and  I  beg 
you  to  leave  me — oh  leave  me,  for  a  while 
at  least !"  And  so  saying,  she  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands  and  wept  bitterly. 

Ross  strode  over  the  terrace  till  her  grief 
had  abated,  and,  returning  to  her,  sat  down 
at  her  feet,  and,  in  mild  and  gentle  tones, 
asked  her  pardon  for  the  unhappy  allusion. 
"  Edith,"  continued  he,  "  I  have  told  you, 
and  you  know  my  history.  I  have  told 
you  that  till  I  came  to  America,  I  had  a 
ruling  passion  which  excluded  all  thoughts 
of  love.  That,  from  my  childhood,  I  pas- 
sionately longed  for  the  restoration  o'f  the 
Stuarts  ;  that,  young  as  I  was,  I  fought  un- 
der Cameron  on  the  disastrous  field  of 
Culloden,  and  that  I  afterwards  shared  the 
exile  of  Charles  Edward  in  France ;  that 
my  estates,  my  father  dying,  were  confis- 
cated, and  that  a  reward  was  set  upon  my 
head.  I  have  now  something  else  to  tell 
you,  and  I  beg  you  to  give  me  your  undi- 
vided attention.  I  have  heard  happy  news 
from  Europe.  Our  gracious  sovereign,  at 
the  solicitation  of  my  friends,  has  been 
pleased  to  pardon  me,  and  to  restore  to 
me  my  inheritance,  and  it  is  not  a  small 
one.  I  am  going  soon  to  take  possession 
of  it,  and  with  me  will  return  my  aunt  and 


several  other  Highland  families  of  distinc- 
tion. I  have  prepared  a  deed  giving*  you 
one-third  of  my  estate,  and  it  will  support 
you  in  that  rank  and  station  which  you  are  . 
entitled  to  hold.  Your  health — your  spirits 
demand  a  change  of  climate  and  a  change 
of  scenery.  You  will  see  great  cities  and 
a  great  people ;  you  will  be  treated  as  a 
daughter  and  sister  by  a  large  and  power- 
ful connection  ;  you  will  move  in  a  society 
more  polished  and  refined  than  the  best  in 
America,  and  you  shall  be  mistress  of 
yourself,  and  never  shall  I  mention  love  to 
you  until  all  traces  of  grief  have  left  your 
heart,  and  you  are  the  gayest  of  the  gay.  I 
ask  you  only  to  go  with  us,  and  leave  this 
miserable  desert  country,  where  there  is 
no  society,  and  where  you  are  so  entirely 
unsphered.  What  a  brilliant  star  would 
you  make  at  court!" 

"  Mr.  Ross,"  answered  Edith,  "  I  haye 
listened  as  you  desired,  and  the  respect 
which  I  have  paid  to  your  proposition  will 
show  that  I  can  yet  think  you  a  gentle- 
man, notwithstanding  the  injuries  and  in- 
sults you  have  heaped  upon  me.  You 
must  not,  however,  be  deceived  by  my 
mildness.  What  I  say  now-  I  say  in  earn- 
est, and  I  will  never  change  my  mind. 
With  my  own  consent  I  will  never  leave 
my  parents,  I  will  never  accept  a  present 
of  the  smallest  value  from  you,  nor  will-' 
I  ever  leave  America  alive,  even  though 
my  parents  and  all  my  kindred  were  dead. 
If  1  had  not  even  the  canker  at  my  heart 
— if  there  were  here  no  relics  sacred  to 
me,  I  will  not  leave  my  country.  Our 
people  are  plain  and  simple,  it  is  true  ;  our 
country  is  yet  rough,  and  comparatively  a 
wilderness,  and  a  terrible  war  is  now  ra- 
ging over  it ;  but,  sir,  it  is  the  land  of  the 
free !  and  more  charming  to  me  would  be 
the  most  savage  wilds,  where  none  but 
freemen  dwell,  than  all  the  splendours, 
luxuries,  and  pleasures  of  the  most  mag- 
nificent court  in. the  gorgeous  East!" 

"  A  traitress,  by  Heaven !"  exclaimed 
Ross,  smiling.  "  I  have  heard  of  such 
language  among  the  American  dames,  but 
I  never  dreamed  that  one  so  young  could 
preach  it  with  such  a  flashing  eye  !  Lady, 
I  know  whence  those  sentiments  were  in- 
spired ;  and  when  I  tell  you  you  must  for- 
get the  teacher  and  his  lessons,  I  flatter 
myself  that  I  do  but  repeat  your  father's 
instructions." 

"  It  ill  becomes  you  to  quote  my  father 
to  me,"  answered  Edith  ;  "  and  his  name, 
I  should  think,  ought  to  fill  you  with  re- 
morse. I  owe  my  father  obedience.  I 
love  him,  and  have  and  would  serve  him 
with  devoted  tenderness :  but  he  has  no 
control  over  my  conscience  ;  and  as  to  my 
soul,  God,  who  gave  it,  has  inspired  it  with 
a  passionate  love  of  liberty.  I  know  that 
my  country  is  engaged  in  a  glorious  strug- 
gle.    I  know  my  countrymen  are  in  the 


ALAMANCE. 


89 


right,  and  I  pray  daily  to  Heaven  for  their 
success.  I  reverence  the  great  and  good 
men  who  are  spending  themselves  in  the 
just  cause.  I  look  on  them  as  the  best 
patriots  the  world  has  ever  seen,  and  I  be- 
lieve their  names  will  be  held  in  everlast- 
ing remembrance !" 

"I  am  a  loyal  subject' of  his  majesty 
George  the  Third,  whom  God  long  pre- 
serve !"  said  Ross;  "but  I  care  little  for 
these  disputes  about  liberty.  I  can  see 
that  you  are  now  carried  away,  as  I  once 
was,  by  a  sublime  abstraction;  and  you 
must  permit  me  to  say  it  is  a  most  un- 
profitable passion.  I  have  forsaken  bully 
Mars,  and  henceforth  I  am  for  the  soft 
pleasures  of  a  more  mighty  god.  Lady ! 
dear,  dear  lady !  I  love  you  with  a  pure 
qnd  single  devotion !  Here,  at  your  feet, 
-kneels  one  who  never  bent  t<\ beauty  be- 
fore, and  here  I  offer  you  all  the  boundless 
affection  of  a  heart  that  has  ever  been  true 
to  its  friends,  and  a  name  that  the  breath 
of  dishonour  has  never  tainted.  You  have 
enthralled  my  soul!  In  your  smile  only 
can  I  live,  and  you  would  I  ever  cherish 
with  unspeakable  tenderness  and  affection. 
Oh!  in  the  name  of  all  you  hold  dear  on 
earth,  pity,  pity,  I  beseech  you,  the  sup- 
plicant who  now  humbles  himself  before 
you !  Have  you  not  a  woman's  heart  1 
Have  you  not  a  portion  of  our  common 
nature  1  Can  you,  with  relentless  cruelty, 
consign  me  to  that  despair,  compared  with 
which  the  pangs  of  death  are  light  1  Sure- 
ly, oh !  surely  you  cannot  hate  me — surely 
you  are  yet  kind  enough  to  pity  the  most 
miserable  wretch  on  earth  !" 

Edith,  moved  to  tears,  bade  her  kneeling 
lover  to  rise,  or  she  would  instantly  leave 
him.  "  I  have  told  you,'1  she  continued, 
"  I  cannot  love  you,  and  that  I  will  never, 
never  give  my  hand  without  my  heart. 
Pity  I  can  and  do  feel  for  you,  who  never 
felt  pity  for  me.  Let  me  appeal  to  you  as 
you  have  done  to  me  ;  let  me  appeal  to 
your  honour,  to  your  generosity,  to  your 
humanity.  Repair  the  wrong  you  have 
done  to  me-  and  to  my  parents.  Restore 
me  to  them  and  I  will  not  hate  you  ;  I  will 
thank  you,  and  esteem  you  as  a  friend.  I 
will  forgive  all  the  past ;  I  will  never  speak 
to  you  harshly  again ;  I  will  beg  my  pa- 
rents to  forgive  you  ;  and  in  all  that  I  can, 
consistently  with  my  honour  and  my  hap- 
piness, I  will  serve  you,  and  I  will  even 
pray  for  your  happiness." 

"  Edith,"  said  Ross,  solemnly,  "  I  seek 
supreme  bliss  :  you  desire,  at  best,  a  short- 
lived satisfaction — 

■  '  There  is  a  divinity  that  shapes  our  ends, 
Rough-hew  them  as  we  will.'       \ 

I  should  have  said  a  destiny,  and  no  one 
can  resist  his  destiny.  When  I  first  saw 
you  I  was  plotting  no  ill  against  you  ; 
when  I  fell  in  love,  it  was  not  by  my  own 


consent.  Love  is  an  involuntary  and  over- 
mastering passion,  and  it  enslaved  me 
while  I  was  on  other  business.  I  cannot 
help  it ;  and  as  self-preservation  is  the 
first  law  of  Nature,  I  must  attend  first  to 
my  own  happiness.  You  are  as  dear  to 
me  as  my  own  heart's  blood,  and  yet,  for 
that  very  reason,  I  must  insist  on  your 
doing  what  you  dislike.  You  must  blame 
the  Fates,  not  me.  Still,  I  believe  I  know 
better  than  yourself  what  is  for  your  own 
happiness,  and  I  thoroughly  believe  I  am 
consulting  it.  All  ladies  are  whimsical, 
and  you  are  now  especially  so.  Your 
mind  is  clouded  by  morbid  humours,  and 
you  persist  wilfully  in  seeking  your  own 
destruction.  It  must  not  be.  I  must  save 
you,  and  save  myself,  and  I  will  do  it." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Mr.  Ross"'  cried 
Edith,  rising  to  her  feet ;  "  I  do  not  under- 
stand you." 

"  You  will  soon,  fair  lady  !"  replied  he, 
also  rising,  and  proudly  pacing  over  the 
mound.  Edith  stood  gazing  at  him  in 
much  bewilderment,  until  he  at  length  ap- 
proached her,  and,  drawing  himself  to  his 
full  height,  said,  slowly:  "I  have  humil- 
iated myself.  Fool  that  I  was,  I  have  • 
been  too  complaisant  to  the  whims  of 
woman,  and  suffered  her  to  scorn  me'and 
trample  on  my  heart !  I  am  myself  again : 
to-morrow  night  you  too  shall  be*  your- 
self, and  you  shall  be  mine  !  Adieu !"  Be- 
fore she  could  speak  he  was  gone. 

"Did  I  not  tell  you  so,  Nannie,"  ex- 
claimed Edith,  weeping,  and  wringing  her 
hands  ;  "  the  base  wretch  intends  to  force 
me  to-morrow  night."     • 

"  Djinna  fear,  dear  lady,  dinna  fear  but 
the  Lord  will  provide,"  said  her  compan- 
ion, with  the  confidence  of  her  race  in. 
supernatural  agencies. 

"  But  God  does  not  work  by  miracles, 
Nannie ;  and  if  you  do  not  devise  some 
plan  for  me,  I'm  sure  He  will  work  no 
miracle  in  favour  of  a  miserable  creature 
like  me." 

"  He  has  afore  now,"  answered  Nannie, 
"helpit  mony  a  puir,  forfairn  lassie  in  the 
very  bit  o'  time  when  their  case  was  maist 
fearful.  What  says  the  Psalmist,  '  Surely 
he  shall  deliver  thee  from  the  snare  of 
the  fowler.'  "  The  two  friends,  unable  to 
come  to  any  conclusion,  returned  to  their 
residence  at  Aunt  Ross's,  laying  many 
schemes  on  the  road,  and  abandoning  each 
as  soon  as  it  was  formed. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

Nannie  Scott  was  a  distant  connection 
of  the  Rosses  ;  and,  having  lost  her  parents 
when  a  girl,  had  been  raised  by  the  aunt 
of  Alan  Ross,  with  whom  she  now  resided. 
This  aunt  was  the  confident  of  Ross,  ami 


©0 


ALAMANCE. 


had  sent  Nannie  with  him. to  Alamance,  to 
S.C.  as  a  companion  to  Edith  Mayfield, 
Krher.  ihai  iaay  was  noaticik'd.     Edith  and 

Nannie  became  intimate  on  the  road  ;  they 
were  lodged  in  the  same  room  at  Aunt 
Ross's,  and  were  inseparable  friends  and 
companions.  The  Scotch  girl,  though  of 
a  grateful  disposition,  had  little  reason  for 
thinking  herself  under  obligations  to  the 
people  with  whom  she  lived,  more  in  the 
capacity  of  a  servant  than  that  of  a  mem- 
ber of  the  family.  She  was,  therefore, 
not  disposed  to  assist  in  their  attempt  on 
her  friend,  to  whom  she  was  now  much 
attached,  and  whose  deliverance  from  her 
present  position  she  sincerely  desired.  On 
the  night,  therefore,  following  the  inter- 
view at  the  Lover's  Knowe,  Edith  and 
Nannie  discussed  between  them  many 
plans  for  the  escape  of  the  former,  but  no 
feasible  one  seemed  to  offer.  The  latter 
told  many  stories  of  happy  and  providen- 
tial escapes  made  by  distressed  maidens, 
which  she  had  heard  when  she  was  "a 
wee  bit  lassie;"  and  the  former,  at  last  de- 
voutly commended  herself  to  Heaven  and 
fell  asleep.  When  she  awoke  the  sun  was 
already  up,  and  her  companion  gone.  The 
family,  as  muchastonished  as  Edith  at  Nan- 
nie's absence,  would  not  believe  but  what 
the  former  knew  where  she  was,  and  that 
some  scheme  for  an  escape  was  on  foot. 
Edith  was  watched  closely  during  the  day, 
and  saw,  by  the  preparations  going  on, 
that  she  was  certainly  to  be  married  on 
the  approaching  night.  She  had  a  faint 
hope  that  her  friend  might  yet  save  her; 
but,  with  the  suspicions  natural  to  those 
who  have  been  persecuted,  she  finally  be- 
gan to  fear  that,  even  Nannie  was  against 
her,  and  had  left  on  purpose  to  be  out  of 
the  way.  As  the  day  advanced,  these  sus- 
picions were  confirmed;  and,  giving  her- 
self up  for  lost,  she  threw  herself  on  her 
bed,  and  there  remained  weeping  till  some 
females  came  to  prepare  her  for  the  cere- 
mony. Without  assisting  or  resisting,  she 
permitted  them  to  array  her  in  bridal  cos- 
iame  and  lead  her  out.  When  she  saw 
present  only  a  few  friends  of  the  family, 
and  a  young  and  sinister-looking  minister, 
her  heart  failed  her,  and  she  fainted.  Up 
to  this  time  a  faint  hope  had  still  shone  in 
her  breast ;  she  still  cherished  a  vague  ex- 
pectation of  deliverance.  She  saw  at  once 
the  awful  reality  of  her  position ;  her 
senses  reeled,  and  it  was  long  before  her 
suspended  animation  was  restored.  When 
it  was,  she  was  again  brought  into  the  room 
where  the  company  was  waiting,  and  was 
held  on  her  feet  by  one  of  her  maids. 
Her  whole  life  now  rapidly  passed  in  re- 
view before  her.  She  remembered  her 
apparent  cruelty  to  Henry  Warden,  and, 
magnifying  the  enormily  of  her  conduct, 
she  persuaded  herself  that  her  punishment 
was  just!     With   this  belief  she  became 


more  composed,  took  her  place  by  Ross^ 
and  the  ceremony  commenced.     "Edith 

"  Hold  i  not  another  wora !"  shouted  a 
travel-stained  woman  who  darted  into  the 
room ;  and,  rushing  between  Edith  and 
Ross,  stood  confronting  the  minister. 

"  Who  is  this  wild  woman  V  asked  the 
astonished  preacher ;  "  let  her  be  taken 
hence." 

"  Who  am  I  ?"  cried  the  new-comer ; 
"look  at  me,  unholy  man,  and  see  if  you 
have  forgotten  Flora  M' Donald  !"  At  the 
sound'of  this  name  the  company  stared  at 
each  other,  and  Flora  went  on  :  "  Little 
did  I  think,  Alan  Ross,  that  a  kinsman  of 
mine  would  ever  disgrace  the  proud  name 
he  bears  by  such  an  unmanly  deed !  But 
there  is  no  time  to  talk ;  show  us  a  room, 
Mother  Ross,  for  the  lady  has  fainted  in 
my  arms !" 

When  Edith  recovered  she  was  in  Tier 
own  room,  and  Nannie  Scott  was  bending 
over  her  with  the  most  anxious  solicitude. 
She  would  have  Nannie  tell  her  immedi- 
ately how  she  came  to  he  saved;  but  her 
friend  told  her  to  be  easy  for  the  present, 
and  wait  for  the  return  of  her  protectress. 
This  latter  remained  with  the  family  till 
all  retired  moodily  to  rest,  and  then  stole 
softly  to  the  apartment  of  Edith. 

"  My  young  friend,"  said  she,  as  she 
came  in,  "if  you  are  able,  give  directions 
to  Nannie  to  get  your  clothes  ready;  for 
you  must  be  off  while  they  think  you  are 
yet  unable  to  move." 

"  I  shall  give  no  directions,"  answered 
Edith,  "till  I  know  what  has  happened. 
How  came  I  to  find  in  you  a  friend  ?" 

"  I  had  seen  you,  and  suspected  some- 
thing was  wrong,"  replied  Flora,  "  and  to- 
day my  suspicions  were  confirmed.  It  is 
a  long  distance  from  here  to  my  house, 
and  yet  your  friend  there  walked  it  alone 
by  noon,  and  told  me  all  your  story." 

"  My  dear, dear  friend,  indeed,"  exclaim- 
ed Edith,  embracing  Nannie. 

"  Time  presses,"  said  Flora,  "  and  you 
must  thank  her  hereafter.  My  husband 
was  not  at  home  ;  but  I  instantly  got.  ready, 
and,  furnishing  Nannie  with  a  horse,  we 
hurried  hither.  On  the  way  we  fell  in 
with  a  company  of  three  men,  two  white 
and  one  black  ;  and  the  leader,  who.  was  a 
very  odd  sort  of  a  man,  made  many  enqui- 
ries about  the  road  to  this  place.  I  was 
in  doubt  what  to  do,  fearing  that  they 
might  be  confederates  of  Alan  Ross.  To 
try  them,  I  therefore  remarked  that  I  sup- 
posod  they  were  going  there  to  the  wed- 
ding to-night.  I  was  eagerly  asked  what 
wedding,  *and  replied  that  you  were  to  be 
married  to  Alan  Ross  at  such  an  hour. 
"  No  she  won't,  by  the  eternal  G— d,  if  you 
will  show  me  the  way  !"  exclaimed  the 
leader.  I  was  satisfied  by  the  honesty  of 
his   look   and  manner,  and,  revealing   to 


ALAMANCE. 


91 


him  my  business,  he  candidly  told  me  his, 
which  was,  to  carry  you  to  Alamance  ;  and 
he  is  r.ovv'  waiting  for  yoa  at  the  errd  of 
the  Ian  ." 

Edith  felt  a  new  life  swelling  within  her 
heart ;  but  then  came  the  sad  reflection, 
"Alas!  1  shall  not  see  him!"  She  half 
trusted  that  he  might  yet  be  alive,  and 
that  he  was  at  the  head  of  the  plans  laid 
for  her  rescue.  She  enquired,  therefore, 
eagerly  for  the  names  of  the  Alamancers. 

"I. asked  them  for  their  names,"  replied 
Flora,  "  and  -the  leader  said  it  might  not  be 
prudent.  He  called  the  black  Ben — fre- 
quently quoted  some  one  he  calls  Old 
Proximus,  and  told  me  to  give  you  his  re- 
spects viva  voce.'" 

'■  Ben  Rust,  as  I  live,1'  shouted  Edith, 
jumping  up,  and  hurriedly  assisting  Nan- 
nie Scott. 

"  I  had  like  to  have  forgotten  a  mes- 
sage the  negro  sent  you,"  continued  Flora 
M'Donald,  after  a  pause.  "  He  desired  me 
to  say  to  you  that  it  was  all  a  lie  about 
Master  Henry's  death,  and " 

"Oh,  God!  I  thank  thee!"  exclaimed 
Edith,  and  she  swooned  in  the  arms  of  her 
friends.  Flora  M'Donald  suspected  a  se- 
cret, but  she  said  nothing.  Edith,  however, 
as  soon  as  she  could  speak,  threw  her 
arms  around  the  neck  of  her  deliverer, 
and,  kissing  her  fervently,  said,  "  My  more 
than  mother,  you  shall  see  how  happy  you 
have  made  me.  I  will  tell  you  what  I 
never  told  mortal  before,  while  I  thought 
he  was  alive :"  and  hereupon  she  gave  a 
brief  sketch  of  her  connection  with  Henry- 
Warden.  Flora  shed  tears,  and,  feeling 
herself  more  than  paid,  hastened  her  young 
friends  to  leave  the  house.  It  was  now 
Nannie's  turn  to  weep,  and  she  lingered  on 
the  threshold,  sobbing  as  if  her  heart  would 
break.  When  they  arrived  at  the  place 
where  they  were  expected,  Rust  shed  the 
first  tears  that  had  moistened  his  eyes  for 
years,  and  old  black  Ben  blubbered'  like  a 
child. 

"  Nannie  Scott,"  said  Flora,  at  length,  "  it 
is  the  last  opportunity  I  shall  have  of  giv- 
ing you  some  token  of  the  high  esteem  in 
which  I  have  held  your  many  virtues.  Ac- 
cept that  horse  which  you  rode,  and  keep 
him  in  remembrance  of  me." 

The  poor  girl  could  say  nothing;  but 
Rust  spoke  for  her,  and  declared  that  the 
animal  should  be  called  Flora  M'Donald 
till  the  day  of  his  death,  and  that -he  should 
be  buried  with  military  honours.  Ben  then, 
forgetting  his  accustomed  caution,  pro- 
posed three  cheers  for  Flora,  and  it  was 
with  much  difficulty  she  could  prevent  him 
from  carrying  out  his  purpose.  "  Well, 
well,  my  beautiful  Christin  friend,"  said  he, 
"  when  we  git  to  Alamance,  and  the  wars 
are  over,  I'll  git  the  whole  country  together 
and  give  you  three  sich  everlastin  jo  vers 
as  were  never  heern  before." 


Edith  promised  to  write  to  Flora,  and 
begged  her  to  signify  in  what  way  she 
could  shew  her  ur.bounueu  g^at'tuiae. 

-•  When  I  return  home,"  said  FIb:*«,  "I 
will  let  you  know  where  to  write,  and 
would  be  glad  to  hear  your  future  history. 
I  believe — I  almost  know — you  will  be 
happy  yet  with  him  to  whom  you  have 
been  so  devoted.  •  I  ?sk  only  that,  when 
you  are  at  home,  and  among  your  own 
people,  you  will  act  a?  a  sister  to  Nannie 
Scott,  remembering  that  you  yourself  were 
once  a  stranger  among  a  strange  people, 
and  that  you  will  sometime?  remember  and 
think  kindly  of  Flora  M'Donald." 

The  Alamancers,  with  Nannie  Scott, 
now  left  for  home,  Ben  Rust  thinking  it 
prudent  not  now  to  divulge  to  Edith  May- 
field  the  death  of  her  father. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

THE    COUNTRY   INN. 

When  the  Alamancers,  under  the  com- 
mand of  Captain  Cornelius  Demijohn, 
parted  from  Henry  Warden,  they  joined  a 
company  of  Whigs,  with  whom  they  took 
part  in  the  battle  of  King's  Mountain.  The 
master  has  much  to  say  in  regard  to  that 
engagement,  and  relates,  with  great  mi- 
nuteness, and  in  a  lively  style,  some  very 
entertaining  and  surprising  incidents  con- 
nected therewith.  The  course  which  our 
history  has  assumed  compels  us,  with 
much  reluctance,  to  pass  over  these  events 
and  proceed  with  those  matters  immedi- 
ately connected  with  the  persons  whose 
desthry  the  reader  is  impatient  to  know. 
After  the  battle  alluded  to,  Uncle  Corny 
was  no  longer  able  to  restrain  his  impa- 
tient  desire  to  see  the  widow  Powell, 
whose  memory  rendered  sacred  to  him 
every  foot  of  earth  in  South  Carolina. 
The  master,  in  compliance  with  a  former 
promise,  agreed  to  accompany  his  enam- 
oured friend,  and  the  Alamancers  separ- 
ated. As  neither  of  the  gentlemen  was  a" 
cavalier,  Corny  and  his  friend  were  totally 
unsphered  by  being  mounted,  the  former 
on  a  lean,  draggle-tailed  pony,  whose  back 
swayed  beneath  its  ponderous  weight  as 
if  it  would  break  in  the  middle,  while  the 
latter  received  practical  instruction  in  the 
original  mode  of  churning  butter  on  the 
back  of  a  tall,  gaunt,  and  hungry-looking 
animal. 

The  captain,  with  the  wish  of  every 
lover  for  the  annihilation  of  time  and 
space,  made  frequent  and  furious  digs  at 
the  flanks  of  his  steed,  his  armed  boot  heel3 
clanging  together  under  its  weasel-shaped 
belly,  and  hurried  on  unmindful  of  the  suf- 
ferings of  M'Bride,  whose  old  roan  had  a 
gait  compounded  of  every  possible  motion 
except  that  of  a  direct  horizontal  progres- 
sion.    Nothing  was  said,  Demijohn  being 


as 


ALAMANCE. 


busy  with  his  own  fancy,  while  Hector  j 
M'Bride  kept  pressing  his  hands  upon  the 
pommel  of  his  saddle  to  create,  as  far  as 
possible,  a  diversion  in  favour  of  the  main 
point  of  contact  between  himself  and  his  j 
horse.  In  this  way  they  arrived  at  an  inn, 
or  grocery,  upon  the  roadside,  and  stopped 
to  refresh  themselves.  The  landlord  was 
a  fortunate  character,  who,  by  asking  no 
questions  and  answering  none,  managed 
to  carry  on  a  flourishing  business  during 
all  the  troubles  of  the  times,  and  was  pat- 
ronized by  Whigs,  British,-  and  Tories. 
While  the  travellers  were  here  resting 
themselves,  there  came  up  a  roving  Geor- 
gian, a  sallow,  lank,  and  bilious-looking 
customer,  whose  hat,  to  use  a  modern 
phrase,  was  extremely  "  seedy,"  and  whose 
threadbare  dress  would  have  been  comfort- 
ably cool  during  the  dog-days,  in  any  other 
climate  except  that  where  the  fashionable 
summer  costume  is  said  to  be  a  shirt  col- 
lar and  a  pair  of  spurs.  He  immediately 
called  for  a  drink,  and,  taking  his  glass  in 
his  hand,  announced  himself  as  "  John 
Nipper  in  perticler,"  a  gentleman  at  large, 
who  was  ready  to  make  the  acquaintance 
of  any  good  fellow,  and  who  could  "  out- 
run, out-jump,  and  stick  his  nose  farther 
in  the  ground  than  any  man  on  this  side  of 
Jerico."  Having  swallowed  his  brandy, 
he  turned,  with  a  patronizing  air,  to  the  Al- 
amancers,  arid  desired  to  know  if  they 
wished  for  any  sport. 

"  We  are  not  sportsmen,"  answered  the 
master;  whereat. John  Nipper  in  perticler 
looked  most  particularly  hard  at  him,  sur- 
veying him  from  head  to  foot,  and  from 
foot  to  head,  and  back  again. 

"  Well,  friends,"  said  he  at  length,  in 
compassionate  tones,  "  I'm  sorry  for  you, 
and  the  best  we  can  do  is  to  take  a  drink. 
Fill  three  glasses,  landlord  ;  and  now,  as 
we're  all  ready,  I  wish  to  propose  a  toast. 
First,  here's  to  ourselves,  individually  and 
collectively ;  secondly,  here's  to  you  and 
towards  you,  if  I  hadn't  'ave  seed  you 
I  wouldn't  'ave  knowed  you ;  and,  third- 
ly, and  lastly,  here's  to  the  widow  Pow- 
ell !" 

"  I  shall  not  drink  that  toast,  sir,  in  such 
company  !"  said  Corny,  throwing  down  his 
glass  with  violence. 

"  I  say  you  must  drink  it,  though,"  re- 
plied John. 

"  And  I  say  I  will  not  drink  it,"  retorted 
Corny. 

"  Yes,  but  you  must,  old  Snuffiebags.,', 

"  Yes,  but  I  won't,  puppy,  dog,  knave, 
villain  !" 

"  Wall,  them's  hard  terms  you  use,  old 
friend,"  answered  John  Nipper,  "but  I  at- 
tribute it  all  to  your  ignorance  of  the  En- 
glish language.  Now  I'll  prove  to  you  why 
you  ought  to  drink  the  toast:  aint  you 
fond  of  good  horse-flesh  V 

"  Not  particularly." 


"  But  don't  you  like  a  clean-legged,  high- 
blooded,  mettlesome  nag,  that  goes  like  a 
bird  a-flym?" 

"  I  can't  say  but  I  prefer  a  more  gentle 
animal,"  answered  Corny;  "but  what  has 
this  to  do  with  the  toast  ?" 

"  Adzactly,  and  now  I'll  bring  you  to  the 
pint.  I  knowed,  as  soon  as  I  saw  you, 
what  kind  of  a  crittur  suited  you.  You 
want  a  good-natered,  kind-conditioned, 
soft-goin  animal  that'll  love  and  respect 
you,  and  that's  easy  to  git  on  and  off  of,, 
don't  you?" 

"Such  a  one  would  suit." 

"  And  if  it's  a  mare  it  will  do  V 

"  Certainly." 

"  Good!"  shouted  John;  "now  the  widow 
Powell  is  jist  sich  a  crittur,  for  John  Nip- 
per in  perticler  has  tried  her  long  enough 
to  know." 

"  You  scurvy  knave  !  you  foul-mouthed 
puppy  !  you  lying  scoundrel !  say  agaiu'lhat 
the  widow  Powell  is  a  mare,  and  I'll  hew 
you  into  shavings !" 

"  Jemini,  Jerusalem !  Stranger,  I've  heern 
tell  of  men  bewitched,  and  who  couldn't 
tell  a  black  sheep  from  the  devil ;  but  I 
never  before  saw  one  who  couldn't  tell  a 
hoss  from  a  human  bein.  If  you  aint  a 
born  nateral  then  Tin  d d  !  I  say,  land- 
lord, whar  did  he  come  from !" 

The  individual  in  question,  as  well  as 
Hector  M'Bride,  seeing  the  mistake,  ex- 
plained matters  to  the  satisfaction  of  thf 
parties,  and  they  all  adjourned  into  tire 
yard  to  see  John's  nag. 

"  Walk  up,  gentlemen,"  cried  John, "  walk 
up  and  see  for  yourselves.  Aint  them  pas- 
terns clean  and  nice  1  Did  you  ever  see  sich 
a  head  and  sich  eyes  afore  ■?  She's  not  per- 
fection, is  she,  nor  the  cream  of  Tartary, 
nor  the  rose  of  Sharon  and  the  lily  of  the 
valley'?  No,  no,  she  aint  none  of  these, 
nor  she  aint  a  dove,  nor  a  lamb,  nor  a  hu- 
man crittur'?  Nor  she  aint  gentle  and 
'knowin,  and  lovin  neither:  here,  Sally, 
follow  me." 

With  this  he  threw  the  bridle  over  her 
head,  and,  running  round  the  house,  she  fol- 
lowed him,  wheeling  when  he  wheeled,  and 
keeping  close  at  his  heels  as  he  muttered 
to  himself:  "  No,  no,  Sally,  you  can't  talk, 
nor  sing,  nor  read  and  write  and  cipher. 
You're  not  high-larned,  Sally,  and  never 
went  to  school ;  but  the  way  you  can 
think  is  a  sin !"  With  this  John  mounted, 
and,  putting  her  into  a  rapid  motion,  ex- 
claimed :  "  This  is  what  I  call  the  Gor-g-y 
step !  I  could  go  to  sleep  here  in  five 
minutes  by  the  watch,  and  never  wake  till 
she  stopped.  If  you  had  the  rheumatiz  in 
all  your  bones,  the  lumbago  in  your  back, 
and  a  side-ache,  and  a  head-ache,  and 
tooth-ache,  you'd  rather  be  on  Sally's  back 
than  on  the  softest  feather  bed.  If  you 
would'nt,  darn  my  soul!"  I 

"  Friend,"  said  Demijohn,  "  I  have    ttle 


ALAMANCE. 


93 


confidence  in  what  you  say,  but  I  -want 
that  nag." 

"  You  can't  git  her,"  responded  John, 
emphatically. 

"But  I  must  have  her;  so  there  is  no 
use  for  any  more  of  your  foolery." 

John  alighted  ;  and,  taking  Uncle  Corny 
by  the  arm,  walked  off  a  few  yards,  and 
then,  looking  him  seriously  in  the  face, 
asked,  "  Are  you  the  Treasurer  of  the 
United  States'?" 

"No." 

"  May  be  you're  Gineral  Washington  V 

"  No,  I  am  not  Washington." 

"  Praps  you're  Lord  Cornwallis  V 

"  I  tell  you  I  am  a  plain  captain  of  mili- 
tia," answered  Demijohn,  impatiently,  "  and 
I  want  your  nag." 

"  You  can't  git  her,  capting,"  replied 
John  Nipper  in  perticler;  "the  price  would 
break  you,  and  wouldn't  /  be  called  to  ac- 
count for  it  1  for  bringing  you  to  poverty, 
your  wife  -to  want,  and  makin  your  little 
children  beggars.  No,  no ;  John  Nipper 
in  perticler  is  too  good  for  that." 

He  did,  however,  yield  at  last  to  tempta- 
tion, and  exchanged  with  the  captain,  tak- 
ing the  worth  of  rjoth  animals  for  boot. 
Hj;  now  prepared  to  leave,  and  insisted 
that  all  should  join  him  in  a  parting  cup. 
Taking  his  liquor  in  his  hand,  he  remark- 
ed, with  sorrowful  tones,  that  friends  must 
part ;  a  sad  reflection  which  was,  howev- 
1  er,  in  his  estimation,  fully  compensated  by 
the  consoling  remembrance  that  they 
would  all  "  meet  at  the  hatter's."  "  If  you 
ever  visit  the  upper  settlements  in  Geor- 
gy,"  continued  he,  "  call  on  John  Nipper 
in  perticler,  and  if  he  does  live  in  a  log 
house  he'll  give  you  the  best  fare  and  show 
you  the  greatest  wife,  jorehaps,  in  seven 
states !"  With  this  he  took  an  affectionate 
leave,  and  went  on  his  way  rejoicing. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

"  Was  there  ever  a  sane  lover  ?" 

Questions  for  the  People. 

The  last  words  of  "  John  Nipper  in 
perticler"  stung  Captain  Demijohn  like  a 
thousand  hornets.  And  here  the  editor 
would  quote  an  observation  of  the  mas- 
ter's in  regard  to  jealousy  :  "  Thus  we 
see,"  writes  he,  alluding  to  Uncle  Corny's 
suspicions ;  "  thus  we  see  an  illustration 
of  a  principle  in  human  nature.  If  we  love 
an  object,  we  think  it  the  most  interesting 
and  beautiful  of  its  kind  ;  and,  judging  oth- 
ers by  ourselves,  we  believe  they  think  so 
too.  Hence  I  have  known  women  to  be 
jealous  of  their  monkeys  and  poodle  dogs  ; 
and  men  of  their  pet  bears,  which  they  ac- 
tually sold,  fearing  their  mistresses  might 
fix  their  affections  on  them."  Thus  it  was 
with  Uncle  Corny,  Who  now  hastened, 
with  the  master,  to  depart    His  toilet  was 


arranged  with  fastidious  care ;  and  embold- 
ened by  his  late  potations,  and  by  his  impa- 
tience, he  forgot  his  accustomed  prudence 
when  on  horseback,  and  forgetful,  also,  of 
the  master's  sufferings,  spurred  up  his  nag 
to  a  rapid  canter.  As  he  came  to  the  skirt 
of  a  wood,  his  skittish  animal  becoming 
alarmed,  suddenly  squatted  and  wheeled, 
while  her  burden,  from  the  vis  inertia,  con- 
tinued onward  in  the  original  direction, 
and  came  to  the  ground  with  a  thunder- 
ing crash.  The  captain  realized  what  he 
had  often  sought  when  a  boy,  a  vision  of 
stars  in  the  daytime ;'  but  his  groans  indi- 
cated any  thing  else  but  pleasure  at(the 
sight. 

For  a  while  he  was  satisfied  that  his 
skull  was  fractured^  and  at  least  seven  of 
his  ribs  driven  in  ;  and,  as  M'Bride  came 
up,  he  called  piteously  to  him  to  examine 
and  see  if  his  brains  were  not  oozing  out. 
•The  master  assured  him,  after  a  careful 
examination,  that  no  serious,  damage  was 
done ;  and,  being  assisted  to  his-  feet,  he 
hobbled  back  to  the  inn,  where  his  wounds 
and  his  impatience  threw  him  into  a  fever. 
He  was,  in  fact,  slightly  delirious,  and 
while  the  excitement  was  on  him  he  pro- 
cured pen  and  paper  and  set  himself  to  the 
serious  job  of  inditing  an  epistle  to  the 
widow  Powell.  The  master,  in  a  chaster 
style  and  a.  freer  hand,  would  have  per- 
formed the  labour  for  him ;  but,  to  use  a 
vulgar  phrase,  the  steam  was  up  in  Uncle 
Corny,  and  albeit  unused  to  the  author's 
small  and  pointed  weapon,  he  now  grasped 
it  as  if  it  had  been  a  sword,  and  panting 
and  expectorating  at  a  furious  rate,  with 
his  whole  system  worked  up  to  the  fiercest 
intensity,  he  wrote  as  follows  : 

"  Beautiful  Sally — These  few  lines  come 
from  your  adorer,  who  is  now,  as  the  French 
say,  horsed  in  combat.  I  have  been,  my  beau- 
tiful pigeon,  flying  on  the  wings  of  love  to  get 
a  sight  of  those  two  stars  that  shine  in  the 
heaven  of  your  face,  and  had  got  as  far  as  this 
inn  when  a  strolling  vagabond  cheated  me  out 
of  my  noble  steed,  and  gave  me,  in  return,  a 
devilish  little  animal  as  spiteful  and  malicious 
as  himself.  The  wicked  creature  threw  me, 
and  bruised  me  so  terribly  that  I  can  scarcely 
walk  over  my  room,  and  must,  therefore,  for  at 
least  a  day,  forego  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you, 
dove  of  my  heart.  Oh  that  I  had  the  wings  of 
the  eagle,  that  I  might  soar  away,  with  light- 
ning speed  and  alight  by  your  side !  Oh  that 
you  were  now  present  to  lay  your  snowy  hand 
on  my  aching  head,  and  cause  all  my  pains  to 
vanish  by  the  music  of  your  voice  !  I  thought 
at  one  time  half  of  my  ribs  were  broken,  but 
what  of  that  1  When  I  am  with  you,  duck  of 
my  soul,  if  all  my  ribs  were  smashed  to  pieces 
I  would  not  mind  it,  for  you'll  be  my  rib,  my 
life,  the  very  breath  of  my  nostrils  ;  and  as  you 
are  an  immortal  beauty,  and  therefore  immor- 
tal, how  could  I  ever  expire  1  But  perhaps  you 
love  that  infernal  Georgian,  that  ■  John  Nipper 
in  perticler,'  a  most  particular  scoundrel  and 
spabby  wretch. 


94 


ALAMANCE. 


"My  honoured  friend,  Lieutenant  M'Bride, 
eays  the  women  are  all  bewitched  ;  and  surely 
you  must  have  been  when  you  suffered  such  a 
snivelling  poltroon  to  storm  the  castle  of  your 
heart.  My  honour,  as  well  as  my  happiness,  is 
at  stake  in  this  matter,  for  did  1  not  leave  my 
own  flag  flying  over  the  fortress  1  Did  I  not 
cany  with  me  one  of  your  ambrosial  curls  as  a 
pledge  of  your  fidelity  1  And  yet  you  have 
turned  traitor,  succumbed,  and  surrendered  to 
a  straggling  interloper,  whose  achievements 
have  consisted  in  the  scaling  of  sheep-folds, 
and  the  storming  of  hen-roosts  !  And  this,  too, 
after  1  had  offered  you  the  heart  of  a  soldier, 
and  the  hand  of  an  honest  man  !  while  you 
were  dwelling  a  crowned  empress  in  my  soul, 
living  there  on  honeysuckles  and  humming- 
birds, and  while  1  was  ready,  with  my  good 
sword,  to  overturn  for  you  all  the  kingdoms  of 
the  world  !  I  thought  you  a  Quebec,  a  Rock 
of  Gibraltar,  which  even  the  bravest  could  not 
scale  in  the  face  of  an  enemy  ;  and  yet,  while 
my  memory  and  name  were  guarding  the  cita- 
del, its  ramparts  of  mud  and  cornstalks  have 
been  successfully  assailed  by  a  grasshopper- 
lookir.g  belligerent,  one  hundred  of  whom  I 
could  drive  througn  all  »hc  ;\var..ps  in  Geor- 
gia- 

"Oh  my  beautiful,  my  dear,  my  beloved  Sally! 
oh  charming  deceiver,  oh  delicious  mocking- 
bird !  how  have  I  thought  of  you,  and  dreamed 
of  you,  and  kissed,  a  thousand  and  a  thousand 
times,  the  precious  token  which  you  gave  me  ! 
I  wear  it  next  to  my  heart,  in  which  you  are  set 
like  a  jewel  in  a  watch,  and  of  which  you  regu- 
late all  the  motions.  I  intended,  when  the  war 
was  over,  to  carry  you  to  Alamance,  to  dress 
you  in  silks  .and  calicoes,  feed  you  on  pigeons 
and  blue-birds,  and  make  you  the  most  blessed 
Woman  on  earth.  And  you  shall  be,  by  Jove  ! 
you  shall  ;  for  you  are  the  most  beautiful,  ten- 
der, and  faithful  creature  on  earth,  and  who- 
ever disputes  it  shall  taste  my  sword.  I  know 
you  are  an  angel,  a  seraph,  a  celestial  cherub, 
and  I  am  ready  to  cut  my  own  throat  for  having 
reflected  on  you.  Death  and  perdition  !  how- 
could  I  have  been  so  flinty. hearted  as  to  have 
insinuated  a  reproach  against  such  a  bright  in- 
carnation of  all  that  is  good  and  sweet  1  Have  I 
wounded  your  delicate  feelings'!  have  I  touched 
your  sensitive  heart  1  Oh  dearest,  forgive  me, 
forgive  me  !  I  bow  humbly  in  the  dust  at  your 
feet ;  my  own  heart  is  broken  into  a  thousand 
fragments,  and  I  wish  I  had  never  been  horn  ! 
I  ask  again,  1  entreat,  I  beg.  that  you  will  for- 
give me,  for  my  disorderly  feelings  are  in  a 
state  of  in?'ibordinalion,  and  will  not  submit  to 
discip!i:!j  as  they  ought.  My  understanding 
has  ingloriously  fled,  and  I  cannot  rally  my 
senses  while  theyare  fronting  the  battery  of  your 
eyes.  Forgive  me,  dearest  apple  of  my  eye, 
and  accept  the  token  which  I  send  yon — a  lock 
of  my  hair — which  is  the  only  valuable  thing  1 
have  about  me  worthy  of  you.  To-i.iorrow  or 
next  day  I  hope  to  present  myself  and  all  that 
I  have  for  your  acceptance;  and  to  smother 
your  reproaches  with  a  thousand  tender  kisses. 
Lieutenant  M'Bride,  of  my  command,  will  hand 
this  to  you,  and  with  ban  you  can  hold  a  con- 
ference, as  he  is  endowed  with  powers  pleni- 
potentiary to  represent  and  act  for  his  senior 
officer.     You  will  please  send  a  note,  a  token, 


or  a  message  by  him,  to  relieve  my  pains  and 
sorrows,  and  enable  me  to  rise  from  my  sick 
couch  and  hasten  to  your  presence,  my  dear, 
sweet  angel. 

"  With  sentiments  of  the  profoundest  esteem, 
love,  and  adoration,  I  have  the  honour  of  being, 
"Your  devoted  servant, 

"Corn'elius  Demijohn, 
"  Captain  in  the  —  Regt.  of  N.  C.  Militia." 

The  only  aid  which  the  mnstcr  rendered 
in  the  production  of  this  composition  was 
in  punctuating  the  sentences,  and  correct- 
ing the  spelling  of  two  or  three  words. 
When  it  was  finished,  to  gratify  his  wound- 
ed friend,  he  took  charge  of  it,  and  started 
for  the  widow  Powell's,  on  the  road  whith- 
er his  reflections,  as  his  own  words  show, 
were  not  the  most  pleasant.  "  I  became 
satisfied."  writes  he,  "  that  men  and  wom- 
en who  want  to  marry  are  decidedly  the 
greatest  nuisances  in  the  ws/ici,  the  grand 
disturbers  of  every  community.  Is  it  not 
strange  thai  oefore  parties  can  come  to 
gethc  they  must,  each  one,  go  through 
such  a  tedious  course  of  folly?  Here,  for 
instance,  is  Mr.  A.  who's  known  Miss  B. 
all  his  life,  and  Miss  B.  has  known  Mr.  A. 
equally  as  well  and  as  long.  Now  Mr.  A. 
takes  it  into  his  head  to  marry  Miss  B., 
and  what  does  he  do]  Does  he  go  straight 
to  her,  and  plumply  tell  his  wishes]  and 
does  she,  like  a  sensible  being,  agree  at 
once  to  the  proposition?  No.  Mr.  A. 
must  begin  a  new  series  of  visits  and  at- 
tentions— must  rig  himself  out  in  new  ap- 
parel, smooth  his  hair  with  the  nicest  care, 
and  add  a  new  strut  to  his  gait.  He  must, 
as  the  saying  is.  fly  round,  and  round,  and 
round  her — must  chase  her  from  camp- 
meetings  to  balls,  and  from  balls  to  water- 
ing-places, galloping  after  her  carriage  or 
gig,  picking  up  her  fan,  carrying  her  band- 
box, and  tying  her  shoe-string,  with  devoted 
assiduity — must  sigh,  blow,  and  flatter — 
must  send  verses,  flowers,  letters,  candies, 
and  presents  enough  to  set  up  a  wholesale 
establishment  of  confections,  gewgaws, 
and  curiosities.  Such  is  the  grand  parade 
which  is  made  about  a  matter  that  is  the 
simplest  thing  in  the  world,  and  which  the 
parson  could  finish  in  less  than  fifteen 
minutes.  Why  do  not  people  tell  their 
minds  at  once  to  each  other,  and  do  what 
they  want  to  do  ;  As  I  thought  of  these 
things  I  became  confirmed  in  my  inten- 
tions of  writing  a  book  ;  yet  I  much  doubt 
if  the  world  will  profit  by  instruction. 
Men,  when  they  want  to  marry,  will  still 
assume  new  and  ridiculous  characters,  that 
sit  on  some  of  them  about  as  gracefully 
as  would  the  plumage  of  the  peacock  on 
a  staid  and  solemn  donkey  ;  and  they  must 
go  through  these  transformations  because 
woman  is,  and  will  be  till  the  day  of  doom, 
a  most  incomprehensible  absurdity." 

The   author  of  these   sage   reflections 
found  "  John  Nipper  in  perticier,"  at  the 


ALAMANCE. 


95 


,widow  Powell's,  disposing  of  himself  in  a 
nianiier  quite  free  and  easy.  Tlie  Geor- 
gian received  the  new-comer  very  cor- 
dially, introduced  him  to  the  widow,  and 
inquired  if  he  would  have  his  horse  taken. 
The  master,  who  saw  that  it  was  useless 
lo  tarry  long,  declined  John's  offer,,  and 
desired  him  to  retire  for  a  few  minutes,  as 
he,  the  master,  had  some  private  business 
vr'h  the  widow.  John  Nipper  readily  and 
cheerfully  ooe^  ?A  and  when  he  was  gone 
M'Bride  spoke  as  folio.: «: 

"Mrs.  Powell,  I  have  brought  you  a  let- 
ter from  your  friend  Captain  b£Tiijohn, 
who  lies  sick  at  the  neighbouring  inn.*1 

"Poor,  dear  man,  I'm  sorry  for  him," 
replied  Mrs.  Powell  ;  "  has  he  got  the 
fluanzy,  Mr.  Magfried  ]  If  he'll  bathe  his 
feet  in  warm  water,  drink  some  hoarhound 
tea  just  before  he  goes  to  bed,  and  tie  a 
stockin  round  his  neck " 

"  He's  not  got  the  influenza,  good  wom- 
an, nor  is  my  name  Magfried.  1  am  known 
as  M'Bride,  madam,  Hector  M'Bride;  and 
1  -think  you  ought  to  recollect  me,  for  1 
lodged  with  you  on  one  occasion." 

"  Well,  dear  me,  I  thought,-!  had  seen 
you  afore,  Mr.  M'Bride.  I  remember  now, 
it  was  in  the  year  of  the  great  August 
fresh,  yon  sold  my  poor,  dear  husband, 
that's  dead  and  gone,  nine  yards  of  green 
calico,  which  was  the  hest  bargain  he  ever 
made,  for  it  lasted  me  a  twelvemonth,  and 
then  made  a  very  good  quilt.  Are  you  in 
the  peddler  business  yet,  sir]" 

"  Father  of  Mercies,  forgive  ns  all  for 
our  follies!"  exclaimed  the  master.  "I'm 
not  a  peddler,  Mrs.  Powell,  at  least  in  the 
dry-gopds  line,  though  my  vocation  in  this 
world  may  well  be  called  that  of  a  peddler 
of  pearls  among  swine.  To  be  brief  with 
you,  madam,  I  and  Captain  Demijohn, 
with  a  few  soldiers,  lodged  at  your  house 
on  the  night  after  the  battle  of  Camden  : 
and  1  now  return  you  thanks  for  your  kind- 
ness to  us  then.  On  that  occasion  the  blind 
rascal  Cupid  pierced  the  heart  of  our  gal- 
lant commander,  Demijohn,  and  he  has 
had  the  tremor  cordis  ever  since.  You  only 
can  cure  him,  and  that's  the  object  of  my 
mission. " 

"  Alack-a-day !"  ejaculated  the  widow, 
•'I -do  now  remember  Mr.  Demijohn,  who 
was  a  very  fleshy  man,  was  he  not]" 

'■  Quite  so,  madam." 

"  It's  all  fresh  in  my  mind  now,"  re- 
turned Mrs.  Powell ;  "  though  I've  seen  so 
inch  trouble  that  I  can  hardly  recollect 
any  thing.  If  the  trimble  cords  is  not 
ke.tchin,  Mr.  M'Bride,  I'll  go  over  and  see 
what.  I  can  do  for  Mr.  Demijohn;  but  l! 
haven't  got  any  salts,  and  the  camphire  is 
just  out.  If  he's  not  too  bad  oft",  I  may  be 
able  to  cure  him  with  yerbs  and  bleedin. 
Have  you  a  lance,  sir]" 

"You  misunderstand  me  again,"  an- 
swered the  master, "  and  I  must,  therefore, ' 


tell  you  plainly  that  my  friend  is  desper- 
ately in  love  with  you  ;  and,  having  been 
hurt  by  a  fall  from  his  horse,  and  therefore 
not  able  to  visit  you  to  day,  he  has  sent 
his  heart  on  paper.  You  will  please  read 
the  letter,  and  prepare  your  answer,  for 
I'm  in  haste.  Captain  Cornelius  Demijohn 
will  visit  you  in  person  to-morrow,  or  next 
day." 

"Dear!  la!  it's  a  love-letter,  is  it!"  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Powell;  "well,  I  do  think!" 
and  with  this  she  opened  the  letter,  held 
it  upside  down,  and  regarding  it  attentively 
for  a  few  moments,  blushed,  and  said, 
"  Well,  the  captain  is  a  sassy  dog.  I'll  go 
h,:a  read  it  to  myself,  Mr.  M'Bride,  and- 
write  an  an»*T2r."  N 

M'Bride,  suspecting  trial  che  could  not 
read,  insinuated  that  he  would  read  the 
letter  for  her,  as  the  captain's  hand  was 
not  extremely  legible.  She  was  too  mod- 
est, however,  to  accept  the  offer,  and  so, 
after  being  absent  several  hours,  returned, 
covered  with  blushes,  and  handed  to  M'- 
Bride a  sealed  note,  with  which  he  imme- 
diately returned  to  the  inn,  suspecting  that 
John  Nipper  was  the  author  of  the  pro- 
duction which  he  carried,  and  satisfied  that 
his  friend  Demijohn  was  on  a  decidedly 
foolish  errand. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

CAPTAIN    DEMIJOHN    SETS   OUT    TO   SEE    THE 
WIDOW   POWELL. 

Uncle  Corny,  before  he  heard  a  word 
of  explanation  from  the  master,  eagerly 
tore  open  the  widow's  letter,  and,  to  his 
unbounded  astonishment,  read  what  fol- 
lows : 

"  These  is  to  inform  Capting  Demyjon  that 
John  Nipper  in  perticler  lias  red  the  Capting'a 
letter,  and  returns  his  complements  in  kind,  and 
has  the  plessure  of  informing  Mr.  Fatty  that,  he 
had  as  well  return  to  whar  he  cum  from.  Mr. 
Demyjon  has  got  one  widder  Powell,  who  he 
ses  cum  near  to  hreak  his  rihs,  so  he  had  better 
let  the  tother  widder  alone  if  he  dosent  want  all 
his  rihs  smashed  and  his  daylights  let  out. 

"  No  more  JVom  yours  till  death  do  us  part, 
"John  Nipper  in  perticler." 

Reason,  threats,  and  entreaties  were  now 
of  little  avail  with  Uncle  Corn)'.  He  was 
satisfied,  and  acknowledged  that  the  w'dow 
had  played  him  false ;  but  has  it  not  been 
the  case  since  the  world  began  that  all 
used-up  lovers  and  injured  husbands  musl 
see  their  own  shame  with  their  own  eyes] 
Captain  Demijohn  formed  no  exception  to 
the  general  rule,  and  was  determined,  he 
said,  to  chastise  John  Nipper  for  his  inso- 
lence, and  to  confuse  and  abash  the  widow 
by  confronting  her  in  person,  and  remind- 
ing her  of  her  fickleness  and  treachery, 
not  recollecting  that  at  such  interviews 


96 


ALAMANCE. 


the  gentleman  invariably  suffers  more  than 
the  mistress.  Accordingly  he  exchanged 
horses  with  the  landlord,  loaded  and  primed 
his  pistols,  girded  on  his  sword,  and  array- 
ed himself  in  uniform.  This  done,  he  held 
out  his  hand  to  M'Bride,  saying,  "  Fare- 
well, lieutenant ;  I  cannot — I  have  not  the 
heart  to  ask  you  to  trouble  yourself  any 
more  in  my  behalf — to  be  sure  I  can't.  I 
thank  you  for  all  your  kindness,  and  shall 
remember  you  when  I  am  breathing  my 
last.     Here  we  part." 

"  God  forbid  !"  exclaimed  the  master, 
"  God  forbid  that  I  should  leave  you,  now 
tnat  you  have  more  need  of  a  friend  than 
<you  ever  had  before.  You  are  infatuated, 
my  friend — about  madly  to  rush  into  un- 
necessary difficulties,  and  that  is  the  very 
time  that  friendship's  zeal  should  burn 
more  warmly  than  ever.  Go  where  you 
list,  I  am  with  you  to  the  death !" 

The  rage  of  Uncle  Corny  was  increased 
to  a  fury  when  he  found  the  widow's  house 
deserted  ;  and  there  is  no  telling  what  he 
might  have  done  in  the  extremity  of  his 
passion  had  it  not  been  for  a  lad  who  op- 
portunely passed  and  informed  him  that 
he  met  the  widow,  a  short  distance  off, 
riding  behind  a  stranger.  The  boy  also 
stated  that  an  old  negro  woman  was  in 
company,  riding  a  separate  horse  and  car- 
rying a  large  bundle,  and  he  supposed  they 
were  going  to  the  neighbouring  village. 
"  Forwards  !"  shouted  Uncle  Corny  ;  and, 
clapping  spurs  to  his  steed,  he  dashed  off 
at  a  respectable  gallop,  followed  by  the 
master,  whose  horse  could  not  be  induced 
to  change  his  long  trot  for  any  more  ac- 
commodating motion.  Thus  they  clatter- 
ed along  until  they  neared  the  village, 
when  suddenly  half  a  dozen  armed  men 
sprung  at  the  bridle  of  Demijohn's  horse, 
one  of  them  crying,  "  Hold  him  fast,  the 
rascal,  hold  him  fast !"  The  captain's  hand 
was  instantly  on  his  sword-hilt ;  but  be- 
fore he  could  draw  his  trusty  weapon  he 
was  dragged  to  the  ground,  disarmed,  and 
bound. 

"  What's  all  this  ado,  my  masters  ?" 
asked  M'Bride,  as  he  rode  up. 

•'  The  other  spy^the  other  spy !"  cried 
the  men  who  had  arrested  Corny  :  and 
soon  the  master  was  in  the  same  plight 
with  his  unlucky  friend.  Demijohn  swore, 
threatened,  and  chafed  ;  the  master  ex- 
plained and  entreated,  but  neither  of  them 
was  heeded  in  the  least,  and  both  were  led 
into  the  village  ;  a  great  concourse  of  boys, 
negroes,  and  women  following  after,  and 
seemingly  disposed  to  tear  the  prisoners 
to  pieces.  Uncle  Corny,  especially,  ex- 
cite-1 a  general  indignation,  the  women 
tongue-lashing  him  as  he  passed  along, 
and  heaping  on  him  every  sort  of  oppro- 
brious epithet,  and  the  boys  goading  him 
with  sharp  sticks  and  pelting  him  with 
rotten  eggs.     The  fat  knight,  with  his  face 


distended  beyond  its  usual  dimensions  and 
glowing  like  a  furnace,  his  mouth  foaming, 
and  his  eyes  glaring  like  those  of  an  en- 
raged buffalo,  appeared  to  the  multitude  a 
frightful  monster,  while  his  stubborn  si- 
lence and  the  vigorous  manner  in  which 
he  applied  his  feet  to  the  shins  and  backs 
of  the  boys  had  no  tendency  to  diminish 
the  odium  and  dread  which  his  presence 
at  first  inspired.  In  this  way  they  were 
carried  to  the  bar-room  of  a  sort  of  tavern, 
the  only  public  room  in  the  place,  and  here 
the  crowd  pressed  in  until  Uncle  Corny 
began  to  dissolve  into  streams  of  perspira- 
tion. Behind  a  little  table,  at  the  farther 
end  of  the  room,  sat  two  grave-looking 
men,  and  to  a  small  open  space  in  front 
of  them  the  prisoners  were  brought,  the 
multitude  pushing  and  crowding  round  un- 
til court  and  prisoners  were  nearly  over- 
whelmed. 

"  Stand  back,  gentle-men — stand  back,  if 
you  please  !"  said  one  of  the  court.  "  The 
court  can't  do  justice  when  it's  scrouged 
in  this  way.  Stand  back  and  let  us  pro- 
ceed on  with  our  proceedinces,  and  do  all 
things  accordin  to  law.  Prisoners,  you 
will  please  to  tell  your  names." 

"  Cornelius  Demijohn  and  Hector 
M'Bride,"  answered  the  master ;  "  and  I 
would  be  pleased  to  know,"  continued  he, 
"  on  what  charge  we  are  arraigned.  Is  it 
for  being  Whigs  or  Tories  ?" 

"  Never  mind,  my  good  fellow,"  replied 
the  spokesman  of  the  court,  "do  you  speak 
when  you're  spoken  to,  and  you'll  lam  in 
good  time  what  you  are  brought  here  for. 
Squire,  have  you  got  thar  names  writ 
down?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  all  down." 

"  Now,  Mr.  Demijohn,"  continued  the 
questioning  member,  "  will  you  be  good 
enough  to  tell  me,  in  the  first  place,  what 
you  are  doin  here  ;  secondly,  why  you 
came  here  ;  thirdly,  why  you  wear  that 
uniform ;  and,  fourthly,  where  you  live  ? 
Put  down  all  the  questions,  squire,  and 
leave  a  place  for  his  answers.  Come,  sir, 
the  court's  waitin." 

"  I  came  from  Alamance,"  answered  Un- 
cle Corny. 

"  That's  not  the  first  question,  sir,"  in- 
terrupted the  court.  "  We  want  no  dodgin 
here.  The  first  query  is  what  are  you 
doin  here — eh]" 

Demijohn. — "  I  was  brought  here." 

The  Court. — "  You  was  brought  here, 
was  you'?  (a  most  precious  rascal).  Well, 
sir,  what  were  you  doin  at  the  inn?  Have 
I  got  ye  now,  old  fox  ?  It  takes  me  to  sift 
sich  as  you,  and  I'll  do  it  before  I'm  done 
with  you.  Out  with  it,  man,  what  were 
you  doin  at  the  grocery  ?" 

Demijohn. — "  I  was  attending  to  my  own 
business." 

M'Bride. — "  Will  you  permit  me  to  speak 
for  my  friend?    He  is  in  a  bad  humour, 


ALAMANCE. 


97 


and  perhaps  I  can,  in  five  minutes,  give 
you  all  the  information  you  want." 

The  Court. — "  Perhaps  you  can,  Mr. 
Bagoflies,  and  a  precious  sight  more  than 
we  want.  You  will  please  to  hold  your 
tongue,  sir,  as  it  will  be  time  enough 
for  you  to  speak  when  your  own  turn 
comes." 

"  What  was  your  business  at  the  gro- 
cery, Mr.  Demijohn?  I've  put  the  ques- 
tion in  a  symbolical  form,  and  all  you've 
got  to  do  is  to  give  me  a  plain  answer. 
It's  monstrous  easy,"  continued  the  Court, 
in  mock-gentle  tones,  "to  tell  what  you 
was  doin.  It  won't  kill  nobody,  so  jist 
out  with  it." 

Demijohn. — "  Go  to  the  devil,  sir !  I'll 
answer  none  of  your  questions,  until  I 
know  what  crime  is  alleged  against  me. 
So  take  your  own  route." 

The  Court. — "  I'll  send  you  to  the  devil 
presently,  my  bully  ;  but  first  I  must  know 
why  you,  bein  a  malignant  Tory  and  Brit- 
isher, have  on  that  uniform,  eh?.  Have  I 
hooked  you  now,  my  friend"?" 

"  The  old  squire's  a  hoss,"  said  one  of 
the  crowd. 

"  He  knows  what  he's  about,"  spoke  a 
second. 

"  Well,  he  does,"  said  a  third. 

"  Perhaps,"  suggested  the  silent  member 
of  the  court,  "  perhaps  it  would  be  well 
enough  to  search  Mr.  Demijohn,  and  see 
what  papers  he  carries  about  him." 

"  That  was  well  said,"  replied  the  other 
magistrate ;  and  immediately  examining 
the  clothes  and  pockets  of  the  captain, 
they  found  various  articles,  which  were 
laid  on  the  table  for  inspection.  First  was 
opened  and  read  the  letter  of  John  Nipper, 
and  next  the  captain's  tobacco-box,  which 
contained  nothing  dangerous  to  the  cause 
of  the  Americans.  At  last  they  found  a 
curious  bundle,  which  at  once  excited  a 
universal  curiosity,  and  which  the  magis- 
trates, with  great  caution  and  solemnity, 
proceeded  to  examine.  It  was  enveloped 
in  a  handkerchief  and  four  or  five  sheets 
of  the  softest  silk  paper,  and,  when  finally 
exposed  to  public  view,  created  no  little 
astonishment  and  alarm.  FifSt,  there  was 
a  lock  of  hair,  tied  with  a  piece  of  pink- 
coloured  ribbon,  and  next  there  were  va- 
rious scraps  of  paper,  written  over  with 
what  purported  to  be  amatory  verses  to 
some  unnamed  beauty.  Each  of  these 
was  read  aloud  by  the  talking  magistrate, 
who  observed,  as  well  as  did  the  crowd, 
that  their  production  strangely  affected  the 
prisoner  who  had  carried  them  about  him, 
and  whose  colour  now  changed  rapidly 
from  red  to  blue,  and  from  blue  to  white, 
while  he  trembled  from  head  to  foot.  It 
was  evident  to  the  court  that  some  dia- 
bolical plot  was  contained  in  these  most 
unpoetical,  rhyming  effusions;  but  they 
were  at  a  loss  to  know  what  it  was,  when 
G 


suddenly  a  bright  thought  occurred  to  the 
leading  justice. 

"  I  see  it  now,"  said  he,  "  it's  all  as  plain 
as  the  nose  on  my  face.  This,  squire, 
is,  beyant  all  question,  the  hair  of  King 
George,  for  I've  heern  say  that  all  the 
Britishers  and  Tories  worship  him  as  if  he 
was  their  god,  and  that's  the  reason  they 
call  him  lord  and  master." 

"But  what  does  he  carry  this  lock  of 
hair  for?"  asked  the  other  justice. 

"  Bekase,"  answered  his  associate,  "  be- 
kase  he's  a  papist.  Besides,  you  see,  this 
lock  of  hair  is.  their  secret  passport,  and 
every  Britisher  and  Tory  in  the  United 
States  has  got  some  of  it,  and  when  they 
show  it  to  each  other  they  know  they  are 
among  their  friends.  As  to  these  here 
papers,  I'm  thinking  they  allude  to  the 
death  of  General  Washington,  or  Marion, 
and  it's  all  plotted  out  here  by  Lord  Corn- 
wallis  himself.  See  here,  what  he  says 
in  one  place  (it's  darnation  hard  to  read), 
'  And  death  shall  end  all  pains  ;'  and  here 
agin,  he  says,  '  Right  through  the  heart  like 
— like' — what  the  devil  is  this  word? — 
'like'  e,  1,  e,  c,  elec — 'like  electricity.'  If 
that's  not  arson,  mayhem,  and  treason, 
then  old  Brainchops  is  a  fool,  and  don't 
know  nothin  at  all.  Gentle-men,"  contin- 
ued he,  rising,  and  motioning  to  the  master 
to  be  silent — "  Gentle-mew,  we  have  this 
day  diskivered  a  grand  plot  which  mout 
have  ruined  us  all.  I  know'd  for  a  long 
time  past  that  some  sich  scheme  was 
hatchin,  and  I  told  Squire  Snapplegrit  that 
somethin  was  goin  to  happen.  /  know'd 
it ;  and  i"  know'd,  as  soon  as  I  laid  my 
eyes  on  this  big  bully,  that  he  was  the 
very  man.  I  told  Squire  Snapplegrit,  as 
soon  as  I  seed  him,  that  he  was  a  spy ; 
and  you  see  that  I've  worm'd  it  all  out  of 
him,  notwithstandin  he  is  so  mulish.  I've 
managed  sich  as  him  afore,  and  they  nev- 
er ketch  me  nappin.  Gentle-men,  it's  a 
solemn  business  to  take  the  life  of  a  fel- 
ler- creetur  in  cold — Silence  !  who's  that 
kickin  up  sich  a  row  back  there  ?" 

"  Avaunt,  and  quit  my  sigtit !"  exclaimed 
Uncle  Corny,  staring  towards  the  door, 
and  becoming  greatly  excited — "  Oh !  thou 
she-monster,  thou  worse  than  the  lewd 
woman  of  Babylon  !  leave  me — leave  me, 
and  never  let  me  see  you  again '  Are  you 
not  ashamed?  Is  not  your  heart  broken? 
I  can  bear  death— I  can  smile  at  the  per- 
secutions of  these  fools— but,  O  God !  to 
think  that  you,  Sally— you,  whom  I  loved, 
should  betray  me,  and  then  come  here  to 
mock  at  my  sufferings !" 

The  whole  crowd  was  in  a  state  of  con- 
fusion— the  magistrates  storming  for  si- 
lence, those  about  the  door  swaying  to 
and  fro,  cursing,  cuffing,  and  kicking  each 
other,  and  Uncle  Corny  still  staring  at  and 
upbraiding  the  widow  Powell,  when  that 
good  woman  made  "her  way  to  the  mag- 


98 


ALAMANCE. 


istrate's  table.  Her  face  was  red  with 
blushes  and  with  her  exertions  to  get  into 
the  room,  and  being  entirely  out  of  breath, 
it  was  some  time  before  she  could  speak. 

"  Good  woman,"  asked  Squire  Brain- 
chops,  at  last,  "what  is  your  business 
here  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir — yes,  sir ;  I'll  tell  your  honour 
when  I  take  a  little  breath — My  husband 
that  now  is,  sir " 

"  Let  me  be  shot  at  once !"  exclaimed 
Captain  Demijohn,  raising  his  arms  to  his 
face.  "  End  the  business  at  once — I'm 
ready." 

"  You  shall  get  your  desarts  in  good 
time,  my  friend,"  said  Chief  Justice  Brain- 
chops  ;  "  but  we  must  proceed  with  our 
proceedinces  in  regler  syllogisms.  Go  on 
with  your  story,  madam." 

"  Yes,  sir,  your  honour.  As  I  was  about 
say,  my  husband  that  now  is — I'm  married 
now,  sir — married  a  second  time,  my  poor, 
dear,  first  husband,  whom  you  all  know'd 
— he.  was  a  mighty  good  man,  and  every- 
body spoke  well  of  him — he  died ;  let  me 
.see — it  was  either  on  the  tenth  or  eleventh 
of  November,  just  three  years  ago — I  have 
it  set  down  in  my  Bible  at  home,  but  I  dis- 
remember  now  whether  it  was  the  tenth 
or  eleventh,  but  it  was  one  of  them  days, 
sure,  and  I  remember  that  the  next  day 
came  the  great  November  snow " 

"  Good  woman,"  said  the  silent  magis- 
trate, "  tell  us  at  once  what  you  want, 
and  never  mind  about  your  first  husband, 
or  your  second." 

"  Yes,  sir,  your  honour.  Well,  my  pres- 
ent husband — we  were  married  to-day,  sir, 
by  Parson  Miller,  at  my  relation's,  Betsy 
Tibbleshanks.  It  was  done  in  a  hurry, 
and  I  haven't  yet  got  over  the  fright ;  but 
my  husband  told  me,  '  Sally,'  ses  he,  '  I 
expect  that  Captain  Demijohn  and  Leften- 
ant  Magfry  are  in  a  peck  of  trouble  jist 
now.'  And  then  he  told  me  that  he  had 
told  a  story  on  them  to  have  them  arrest- 
ed, and  that  I  must  come  and  tell  you 
about  it." 

"  Who's  your  husband  ?"  asked  Squire 
Snapplegrit. 

"  Mr.  Nipper,  sir — John  Nipper,"  an- 
swered the  lady,  modestly ;  at  which  Cap- 
tain Demijohn  started  as  if  a  pistol  had 
been  fired  in  his  face.  The  master  was 
more  composed,  and  begging  permission 
to  examine  Mrs.  Nipper  himself,  he  pro- 
ceeded as  follows : 

"  Mrs.  Nipper,  do  you  not  know-  the  fact 
that  I  and  my  friend  there  are  Whigs, 
and  that  we  fought  in  the  battle  of  Cam- 
den, and  lodged  at  your  house  the  night 
after  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir ;  I  remember  it  now  as  well  as 
if  it  was  yesterday ;  and  that  night  Mr. 
Demijohn  and  myself  set  up  all  night  with 
a  poor  sick  officer.  I  never  thought  then 
that  Mr.  Demijohn " 


M'Bride. — "  Stop  a  moment.  Is  not  that 
your  hair  V 

Mrs.  Nipper. — It  looks  very  much  like 
it,  sir,  and  Mr.  Demijohn  told  me  he  was 
going  to  tie  it  up  in  pink  ribbon  as  soon  as 
he  got  to  a  store.  He  spoke  to  me  very  : 
politely,  and  often  told  me  he  could  die  for 
me  ;  and  little  did  I  then  think  he  Avas  such 
a  man  as  he  is ;  but  men  are  mighty  de- 
ceivin,  and  I've  often  heern  old  Mother 
Suddlepot  say,  that  lives  over  by  the  great 
mill,  on  the  other  side  of  Peedee — 1  used 
to  go  there  often  when  I  was  a  girl,  for  I 
had  a  cousin  livin  there  who's  been  killed 
in  the  wars.  He  was  a  valiant  man,  and 
they  say  when  a  cannon-ball  tore  off  his 
shoulder,  he " 

"  For  God's  sake,  leave  off  your  cousin's 
history,"  exclaimed  the  master,  "  and  at- 
tend to  the  business  in  hand.  Why  were 
you  afraid  of  Mr.  Demijohn'?" 

"  Why,  sir,"  answered  Mrs;  Nipper, 
"  didn't  you  bring  a  letter  from  him,  and 
didn't  he  say  in  that  letter  that  he  was 
goin  to  carry  me  to  Tophy  and  feed  me  on 
snails  and  rattlesnakes  1  That  I  was  ugly, 
and  reformed,  and  bewitched,  and  that  he 
and  yourself  was  goin  to  carry  me  off  next 
day  because  he  had  a  spite  agin  me,  and 
that  I  hadn't  no  friends,  and  needn't  make 
any  fuss  about  it.  Here's  the  letter,  sir, 
which  my  husband  that  is  requested  me  to 
bring  to  you." 

The  master,  for  the  satisfaction  of  all 
parties,  and  to  convince  the  woman  and 
the  crowd  that  they  all  had  been  imposed 
on  by  the  Georgian,  desired  to  read  the  let- 
ter ;  but  Demijohn  opposed  it,  being  unwil- 
ling that  the  world  should  know  his  folly. 

"  I  have  been  a  fool,"  said  he,  "  and  I 
am  willing  to  pay  for  it.  Let  me  be  shot 
rather  than  be  cleared  by  exposing  my 
childishness  ;  in  fact  I  prefer  death,  so  let 
the  court  proceed." 

The  court,  however,  were  disposed  to 
read  the  letter,  and  did  read  it  aloud,  every 
word  piercing  the  unfortunate  author  like 
a  dagger,  and  creating  an  immense  sensa- 
tion in  the  crowd.  Hatred  for  the  captain 
was  changed  to  sympathy,  and  the  public 
indignatioifrurned  against  John  Nipper. 

"  I  always  suspected  he  was  a  knave," 
said  Squire  Brainchops,  "  and  told  Squire 
Snapplegrit  that  I  didn't  like  his  looks. 
Where  is  he  1  Let  him  be  arrested  and 
brought  before  us  directly." 

The  multitude,  eager  to  see  some  one 
executed,  now  dispersed  in  search  of  the 
Georgian,  little  heeding  the  entreaties  of 
his  wife,  who  declared  that  he  was  sick 
a-bed.  John,  however,  was  not  so  sick  as 
to  be  unable  to  leave  the  village  as  soon 
as  he  parted  from  his  wife  ;  and  the  inhab- 
itants now  searched  for  him  in  vain.  His 
wife's  old  servant  and  all  her  clothes  were 
gone,  and  it  was  also  ascertained  that  her 
husband  had  that  very  day  sold  her  inter- 


ALAMANCE. 


99 


est  in  the  land  on  which  she  lived,  all  her 
.stock  and  household  property,  and  pock- 
eted the  money.  Whence  he  had  come, 
whither  he  had  gone,  who  he  was,  where 
he  resided,  no  one  could  tell,  and  his  un- 
fortunate bride  was  overwhelmed  with 
grief. 

As  she  sa!  at  her  relation's,  weeping  and 
wringing  her  hands,  Cornelius  Demijohn, 
who  was  now  at  liberty,  accosted  her. 
"Madam,"  said  he,  "I  come  to  bid  you 
|  farewell.  You  have  injured  me — don't 
cry  nor  say  a  word,  for  I  forgive  you. 
;  You  were  deceived — I  know  it  all.  Fare- 
well, and  may  you  yet  be  happy!"  He 
.gave  her  his  hand,  and  when  he  took  it 
away  a  paper  dropped  on  the  floor,  in 
which  was  found  a  twenty-pound  note  and 
these  words  :  "  Expect  this  sum  from  me 
till  you  marry  again. — C.  D." 

"Mr.  M'Bride,  let's  go  to  Alamance," 
said  Uncle  Corny,  as  he  met  the  master  in 
the  street. 

"  Agreed,  with  all  my  heart,"  answered 
the  latter ;  and  the  two  friends  were  imme- 
diately on  the  road.  Not  another  word 
was  spoken  by  either;  but  as  the  captain 
came  to  the  late  residence  of  the  widow 
Powell  that  was,  he  halted  his  horse  for  a 
moment,  and  a  single  tear  moistened  his 
eyes  as  he  took  from  his  pocket  a  little  bun- 
.dle  and  flung  it  into  the  yard.  The  master 
understood  his  feelings,  and  in  silence  they 
journeyed  on  till  they  reached  the  inn, 
where  M'Bride,  after  some  persuasion,  in- 
duced his  friend  to  take  up  for  the  night, 
•which  had  now  commenced,  and  which 
threatened  to  be  cold  and  stormy. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

TRAGEDY  AT  THE  INN. 

The  master  having  promised  his  host 
extra  pay,  the  latter  agreed  to  receive  no 
other  guests  that  night ;  an  agreement,  by 
the  way,  which  he  supposed  he  would  not 
be  tempted  to  break,  for  the  wind  moaned 
dismally  through  the  yard,  and  the  sleet 
rattled  against  the  windows.  The  party 
within,  though  seated  round  a  cheerful  and 
blazing  fire,  seemed  to  be  affected  by  the 
dreariness  without,  and  for  some  time  not 
a  word  was  spoken.  Demijohn  especially 
looked  sad  and  disconsolate,  and  with  his 
left  arm  hanging  over  the  back  of  his  chair, 
bis  chin  drooping  on  his  breast,  and  his 
hat  pulled  nearly  over1  his  eyes,  seemed 
the  very  picture  of  melancholy  as  he  sat 
with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  giowing  embers, 
and  his  mind  occupied  with  gloomy  re- 
flections. M'Bride  was  stooping  to  read, 
•by  the  light  of  the  fire,,  a  piece  of  an  old 
copy  of  the  "Prim®  Origines"  which  he 
had  found  on  the  premises  ;  the  host  was 
tinkering  and  whistling  in  one  corner*  and 
iris  wife  sat  in  the  other,  engaged  with  her 


knitting  and  rocking  a  cradle  with  her  foot, 
when  suddenly  a  loud'rap  at  the  door  start- 
led all  from  their  seats. 

"  Who's  that  V  demanded  the  landlord. 

"  Open  and  see,"  was  the  answer,  and 
again  the  knocking  was  repeated. 

"  You  must  tell  your  name  and  busi- 
ness," said  the  innkeeper,  "before  I  can 
open  the  door." 

"  I  can't  afford  to  holler  my  name  in  this 
night  air,"  replied  he  outside,  "  and  it's 
not  the  fashion  for  gentlemen  to  be  intro- 
duced with  a  door  between  them.  Open 
this  door,  I  say." 

"  Stranger,"  said  M'Bride,  "  this  house 
is  chartered  for  the  night,  and  is  full  be- 
sides. There  is  a  village  near  by,  and 
there  you  can  be  accommodated,  so  depart 
in  peace." 

"  I'll  enter  in  war,"  answered  the  stran- 
ger, "and  I'll  empty  the  house  in  a  twinklin 
if  this  door  aint  opened.  I  say,  do  you 
want  these  planks  shivered  1"  And  at 
this  he  thundered  against  the  door  with 
so  much  violence  that  the  landlord  begged 
him  to  desist  for  a  moment;  and,  putting 
his  mouth  to  the  keyhole,  asked  to  which 
side  his  would-be  guest  belonged. 
•  "  To  the  outside,"  answered  the  latter, 
"  and  a  devilish  cold  one  it  is." 

Landlord. — "  Are  you  Whig  or  Tory, 
many  or  few  V 

Stranger. — "  You're  almighty  perticler, 
and  I  must  give  my  answers  to  them  ques- 
tions at  my  leisure,  after  I  git  warmed." 

"And  if  you  don't  answer  them  now," 
spoke  Demijohn,  reaching  for  his  sword, 
"  I'll  see  very  quick  who's  the  stronger, 
you  or  we.  We  are  armed — and,  by  Jupi- 
ter, if  you  do  not  tell  to  which  side  you 
belong,  you  shall  taste  of  my  sword." 

"  Liberty,  then,  and  be  damned  to  you  !" 
shouted  the  stranger;  and  instantly  the 
door  flew  open,  and  Ben  Rust  was  nearly 
squeezed  to  death  by  the  master  and  Uncle 
Corny. 

"  My  Christin  friends,"  said  the  new- 
comer, "  it's  no  time  for  compliments,  for 
there  are  ladies  out  here,  and  you  may 
prepare  to  see  a  sperit." 

Neither  Demijohn  nor  M'Bride  had  ever 
heard  of  the  reported  death  of  Edith  May- 
field,  but  still  they  were  as  much  aston- 
ished to  see  her  as  if  she  had  been  a  ghost. 
While  supper  was  preparing  for  the  new 
guests,  Rust  briefly  narrated  the  adven- 
tures of  Edith  and  of  himself;  told  how 
Richard  Sikes  had  conducted  him  to  her 
place  of  concealment,  and  was  beginning 
to  give  an  account  of  the  state  of  things 
at  Alamance  when  another  knocking  was 
heard  at  the  door.  The  stranger  at  once 
announced  himself  as  a  faithful  British 
subject,  said  he  was  alone,  and  that  he 
was  so  anxious  to  be  admitted  that  he  sur- 
rendered himself  a  prisoner  on  the  spot. 
The  door  was  cautiously  opened,  and  Dick 


100 


ALAMANCE. 


Sikes  shrunk  behind  the  trembling  Edith, 
for  both  saw  their  most  dreaded  enemy, 
Alan  Ross.  He  remembered  the  master 
and  Demijohn,  whom  he  cordially  saluted, 
and,  bowing  stiffly  to  Rust  and  the  ladies, 
said — "  Mr.  M'Bride  you  seem  astonished, 
and  you  have  reason  to  be  so.  I  am  now 
about  to  end  my  allegiance  to  my  earthly 
sovereigns,  three  of  whom  I  have  served. 
In  the  service  of  the  first  I  was  rewarded 
with  wounds,  poverty,  and  exile ;  in  that 
of  the  second,  with  suspicions  and  distrust ; 
while  from  the  third  I  have  received  a 
broken  heart.  Gentlemen,  may  God  pros- 
per you  and  reserve  you  for  a  better  fate 
than  mine ;  Edith,  farewell,  for  here  we 
part  forever,  you  for  heaven  and  I  for 
hell !"  Instantly,  and  in  quick  succession, 
two  pistols  were  fired,  a  groan  and  shriek 
were  heard,  and  Alan  Ross  and  Edith  May- 
field  fell  lifeless  to  the  floor.  The  com- 
pany crowded  so  thickly  round  the  latter, 
that  for  some  time  no  one  knew  whether 
she  was  dead  or  only  wounded  ;  but  at 
last,  Nannie  Scott,  lifting  her  inanimate 
friend  in  her  arms  and  carrying  her  to  a 
bed,  ascertained  that  she  had  swooned 
from  alarm,  being  but  very  slightly  wound- 
ed on  the  shoulder.  Ross  himself  expired 
immediately ;  and,  as  the  company  were 
gathering  round  him,  and  the  confusion 
subsiding,  a  groan  was  heard  in  the  corner 
of  the  room,  and  there  Dick  Sikes  was 
found  mortally  wounded  and  weltering  in 
blood.  The  poor  wretch,  fearing  to  be 
seen  by  Ross,  whom  he  had  once  served; 
had  hid  behind  the  ladies,  and  there  re- 
ceived the  contents  of  the  pistol  aimed  at 
the  breast  of  her  whom  he  had  been  in- 
strumental in  saving  from  an  unhappy 
fate.  He  asked  every  one's  forgiveness, 
besought  Edith  to  pray  for  the  salvation 
of  his  soul,  and  then,  extending  his  hand 
to  Rust,  said,  feebly,  "  Farewell — you  are 
the  only  friend  I  ever  had :  I  hope  you'll 
remember" — and  death  closed  his  lips  for- 
ever. A  bundle  of  papers,  not  sealed,  and 
addressed  to  f  Henry  Warden,"  was  found 
in  the  pocket  of  Ross,  and  then  he  and  the 
Tory,  side  by  side,  and  by  the  light  of 
torches,-  were  hastily  buried  in  a  small 
neighbouring  glade.  After  the  others  had 
left,  Ben  Rust  lingered  for  a  while  over 
the  last  resting-place  of  Sikes,  and  dropped 
upon  his  grave  the  only  tear  of  kind  sor- 
row that  had  ever  been  shed  for  him.  By 
the  time  he  had  returned  and  finished  his 
supper,  it  was  nearly  day ;  and  the  land- 
lord, horror-struck  at  the  tragedy  which 
had  been  enacted  in  his  house,  was  urging 
his  guests  to  be  off  by  the  early  dawn. 
"  I  am  at  heart  a  Whig,'.'  said  he  :  "  but  I'm 
poor  and  timid,  and  cannot  endure  to  see 
bloodshed.  I  therefore  have  tried  to  re- 
main neutral  in  action;  but  I  often  find 
ways  to  serve  our  friends,  and  you  may 
rely  on  my  fidelity  and  prudence.    The 


whole  country  will  be  excited  in  a  few 
hours,  and,  if  you  do  not  wish  to  be  seen 
and  heard  of  by  every  body,  you  must  be 
far  away  by  ten  o'clock  to-morrow.  I'll 
take  care  that  no  one  gets  on  your  track, 
if  you'll  tell  me  which  way  you  are  going ; 
for  I'd  die  before  I'd  expose  fhat  beautiful 
and  innocent  lady  to  any  more  troubles. 

The  master  informed  him  that  as  the 
border  country  was  unsettled  and  danger- 
ous, he  should  aim  for  the  mountains  of 
North  Carolina ;  and  accordingly  at  break 
of  day  the  Alamancers  and  Nannie  Scott 
were  on  the  road.  As  the  landlord  pre- 
dicted, the  country  did  become  excited ; 
the  most  strange  and  miraculous  stories 
got  into  circulation,  and  the  glade  was 
considered  as  haunted  ground  for  half  a 
century.  Recently,  however,  the  place 
was  enclosed  and  put  under  cultivation, 
and  human  bones  and  a  pair  of  rusty  pis- 
tols were  turned  up  by  a  ploughman.  They, 
of  course,  created  quite  a  sensation  ;  but  if 
these  sketches  ever  reach  that  country, 
they  will  at  once  solve  a  mystery  which 
has  puzzled  the  learned  men  of  the  vil- 
lages, and  afforded  many  exciting  ques- 
tions for  the  debating  clubs  of  the  neigh- 
borhood. 

The  master,  who  was  always  interested 
at  the  sight  of  manuscripts,  could  not  resist 
the  temptation  to  open  Ross's  papers, 
which  he  found  to  consist  of  his  will,  a 
letter  to  Henry  Warden,  and  a  sketch  of 
the  author's  life,  to  which  the  letter  was  a 
sort  of  introduction.  The  will  directed 
that  all  the  testator's  real  and  personal 
estate  be  sold,  and  the  proceeds  be  divided 
equally  between  Nannie  Scott,  Henry 
Warden,  and  Duncan  Stuart.  "  Two  of 
these  persons  I  have  injured,"  said  he  in 
the  instrument  alluded  to,  "  and  the  other 
is  my  relation,  and  has  been  a  dependent 
of  my  family ;  may  what  I  leave  them  pay, 
in  part,  the  great  debt  I  owe  them." 

Of  this  will  Flora  M'Donald  and  her 
husband  were  left  executrix  and  executor, 
and  full  directions  given  for  the  transmis- 
sion of  the  funds  to  the  United  States.  At 
the  first  halting-place  the  master  read,  first 
to  himself  and  then  to  the  company,  the 
history  of  Ross  ;  and  as  it  was  left  among 
the  papers  bequeathed  to  us,  it  will  appear 
in  the  following  chapter. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

SCRAPS  OF  MY  <JWN  HISTORY. 


BY   ALAN   ROSS. 


If  ever  I  should  write  a  book  —  an 
achievement  I  shall  attempt  as  soon  as  I 
get  time— it  shall  treat  of  a  new  subject. 
Solomon  and  his  admirers  say  there  is 
nothing  new  under  the  sun ;  but,  with  all 
due  respect  for  the  wisdom  of  the  learned 
Hebrew,  I  dissent  from  the  opinion  quoted. 


ALAMANCE. 


101 


Who  in  his  day  ever  heard  of  a  treatise  on 
window-gazing?  This  is  the  subject  on 
whicTf Twish  to  publish  a  work,  and  if  I 
die  before  I  do  it  the  world  will  be  a  loser. 
Poets  and  lunatics  proper  have,  from  time 
^immemorial,  dilated  upon  the  pleasures  of 
star-gazing,  moon-gazing,  landscape-gaz- 
ing, and  ocean-gazing,  but  of  all  the  excit- 
ing, beautiful,  or  inspiring  scenes  in  the 
world,  commend  me  to  the  sight  of  a  lady's 
— a  strange  lady's — face  at  an  upper  win- 
dow. There  is  a  great  difference  between 
such  a  sight  at  an  upper  and  a  basement 
window.  In  the  latter  case  the  fair  nymph 
seems  to  be  associated  with  ideas  of  house- 
hold labours,  is  not  in  her  own  peculiar 
abode,  where  she  is  supposed  to  think  only 
of  love  and  romance,  while  the  approach 
to  her  is  easy.  Besides,  she  is  within 
speaking  distance,  and  a  single  word  would 
dissolve  the  illusion,  and  at  once  proclaim 
the  beauty  to  be  a  common  fellow-mortal; 
and  all  this,  in  addition  to  the  risk  of  seeing 
bad  teeth,  hearing  a  coarse  voice,  and  find- 
ing a  very  dull  and  stupid  intellect.  But 
when  you  dimly  see  a  sweet  face  behind 
the  half-drawn  curtains  of  an  upper  case- 
ment, the  heart  is  at  once  fired  with  a  vo- 
luptuous glow,  and  a  crowd  of  pleasant 
and  undefinable  ideas  rush  upon  the  mind. 
The  imagination  has  full  room  to  play,  and 
the  fair  vision  is  converted  into  a  delight- 
ful and  gracious  houri,  with  a  tender  heart 
and  a  soul  where  only  love  and  its  pleas- 
ures can  ever  be  thought  of.  We  imagine 
that  she  will  kindle  at  a  look  or  gesture, 
and  a  mute  correspondence  immediately 
commences,  we  thinking  our  neighbour 
affected  like  ourselves,  and  that  every  mo- 
tion of  her  head  and  wave  of  her  hand  are 
intended  to  convey  a  world  of  delicious 
meaning.  Those  only  are  happy  who  live 
among  the  creations  of  fancy ;  and-  when 
is  the  imagination  so  bright  as  when  sit- 
ting at  our  own  window,  on  a  pleasant 
evening  in  June,  the  window  just  opposite, 
on  the  other  side  of  the  street,  is  seen  to 
rise,  and  a  blooming  young  maiden  is  re- 
vealed, her  face,  and  neck,  and  the  begin- 
ning of  her  breasts'  gentle  swell  being  vis- 
ible \  Here  you  have  before  your  eyes 
an  enchanting  and  lovely  creation,  with 
mortal  passions  and  sympathies,  and  yet 
totally  disconnected  with  the  vanities,  foi- 
bles, cares,  and  sorrows  of  mortal  exist- 
ence. On  such  occasions  the  being  before 
me  seems  born  only  to  love  and  be  loved ; 
and  thinking  that  she  has  been  watching 
me  and  is  occupied  with  thoughts  similar 
to  my  own,  I  become  ecstatic,  and  forth- 
with open  a  communication  with  her.  At 
first  I  make  acquaintance  by  a  half-averted 
look  or  gaze,  then  I  make  some  very  slight 
and  scarcely  perceptible  motion  with  my 
hand,  and  finally  become  liberal  with  signs 
and  gestures.  In  this  way  only,  except 
in  one  solitary  instance,  have  I  loved ;  and 


I  have  spent  thus  hours,  days,  and  months, 
the  most  pleasant  part  of  my  existence. 
I  cannot  love  a  woman  that  I  know,  and 
with  whom  I  associate.  If  I  converse  with 
her,  from  lips  that  seem  to  be  made  only 
to  distil  nectar  and  to  discourse  celestial 
harmony,  I  hear  coarse,  rude  sounds,  and 
plain  and  vulgar  ideas  ;  if  I  touch  her,  I 
find  that  the  apparently  ethereal  form  that 
floats  along  in  webs  of  gossamer  is  a  wad- 
ed mass  of  dry- goods  and  whalebone ;  and 
if  I  mingle  with  her  much,  I  soon  learn 
that  the  wihole  animal  is  but  a  compound 
of  passion  and  folly.  And  this  brings  me 
to  another  and  a  darker  trait  in  my  charac- 
ter. This  world  has  ever  seemed  to  me  a 
great  battle-field,  where  all  animated  be- 
ings and  the  elements  of  inanimate  na- 
ture are  perpetually  combatting.  In  the 
war  of  elements  among  themselves,  and 
against  all  breathing  things,  the  earth 
yawns,  and  mountains  are  rocked  to  their 
bases;  volcanoes  pour  forth  their  floods 
of  liquid  fire,  the  clouds  dart  their  terrible 
bolts,  shivering  and  destroying  whatever 
they  touch,  conflagrations  lay  cities  in 
ashes,  tornadoes  and  whirlwinds  sweep, 
with  desolating  fury,  over  the  country,  and 
the  raging  billows  of  the  seas  are  ever 
yawning  to  engulph  in  their  fathomless 
depths.  These  are  some  of  the  most  nota- 
ble ways  in  which  the  wars  of  senseless 
matter  are  carried  on  ;  but  every  substance 
in  the  material  world  contains,  an  element 
of  destruction  that  wars  on  other  elements, 
each  one  struggling  for  the  mastery,  for 
absolute  dominion.  Which  will  finally 
succeed — whether,  as  some  think,  fire,  or, 
as  others  suppose,  water — it  is  to  my  mind 
certain  this  earth  of  ours,  this  congeries 
of  hostile  particles  and  principles,  will 
be  rent  and  torn  by  terrible  convulsions, 
and  become  a  formless  and  uninhabited 
chaos,  a  globe  of  burning  fire — be  shattered 
into  millions  of  fragments,  or  become  a 
great  mass  of  virus  matter,  whose  putres- 
cence will  scatter  pestilence  through  the 
universe.  As  it  is  with  inanimate  matter 
so'  is  it  with  man  and  brute,  whose  voca- 
tion is  destruction.  Are  not  all  men,  and 
women  too,  fighting  each  other,  openly  or 
covertly  1  Look  abroad  over  the  world ; 
consult  history,  consult  your  own  expe- 
rience, reader,  whoever  you  be.  War  is 
the  chief  pastime  of  kings  and  rulers,  by 
whatever  name  they  may  be  called,  and  at 
their  command  mighty  armies  are  ever  in 
the  field,  strewing  the  earth  with  human 
bones,  and  moistening  its  soil  with  human 
blood.  The  first  element  of  a  great  state 
is  a  great  and  well-appointed  army ;  and 
to  butcher  our  species  is  the  surest,  the 
shortest,  and  the  safest  way  to  the  venera- 
tion and  confidence  of  our  race.  But  it  is 
r.ot  merely  when  armed  soldiers  meet  that 
hostilities  are  carried  on.  Every  city,  and 
village,   and    hamlet — yea,   every   court- 


102  ALAMANCE. 

house,. and  church,  and  domestic  altar, is  a  forth  to  conquer.  I  never  experienced  a 
battle-field.  The  pastor  pounds  you  from  defeat,  and  soon  acquired  such  a  reputation 
the  pulpit,  the  lawyers  baste  and  the  judg- ;  that  one  look  was  a  victory.  Thus  things 
es  roast  you  in  the  forum  of  justice,  the  !  stood  with  me  when  my  political  aspira- 
doctors  poison  and  crucify  you,  the  usurer  I  tions  were  extinguished  in  blood  on  the 
and  the  bailiff  pursue  you  with  writs  and  •  field  of  Culloden,  and  I  had  to  fly  my  coun- 
warrants,  the  author  stings  you  with  his  |  try,  leaving  to  mourn  and  wither  behind 
pen,  the  women  ensnare  you  on  every  j  me  a  large  circle  of  female  friends,  who 
side,  and  the  tongue  of  slander  and  de-  each  gave  me  a  lock  of  their  hair,  and 
traction  will  follow  you  beyond  the  grave,    each  one  of  whom  had  sent  to  the  army 


Every  one  is  trying  to  pull  down  others  to 
build  up  himself,  and  as  each  individual  is 


and  navy  several  of  its  most  noble  and 
gallant  spirits.    I  carried  with  me  the  pre- 


an  Ishmael,  with  his  ..hand  against  every  |  cious  tokens,  cherishing  them  with  great 
man,  and  every  man's  hand  against  him,  j  care — to  exhibit  for  the  amusement  of  the 
so  are  sects  arrayed  against  sects,  creeds  |  ladies  over  the  Straits 


against  creeds,  classes  against  classes,  and 
ranks  against  ranks.  Among  these  classes 
maybe  mentioned  the  male  and  female,  who 
carry  on  an  hereditary  and  inextinguish- 
able war  against  each  other.  Every  wom- 
an is  a  magazine  of  destruction,  a  minia- 
ture army  in  herself,  from  a  child,  careful- 
ly equipped  for  destruction.  Her  dress, 
her  looks,  her  words,  and  her  very  gait  are 
all  designed  with  a  view  to  the  infliction 
of  injury  on  the  opposite  sex ;  and  pretty 
much  the  same  may  be  said  of  them.  On 
both  sides  fraud,  artifice,  and  deception  are 
practised  ;  and  as  some  men  seem  born  to 
be  fooled  by  the  women,  so  are  the  wom- 
en destined  to  be  the  victims  of  other  men. 
Now,  of  all  wars  I  love  that  most  where 
the  braying  of  trumpets,  the  thunders  of 
artillery,  the  glitter  of  steel  and  gold,  the 
proud  prancing  of  horses,  and  the  furious 
shock  of  contending  hosts  lend  an  air  of 
grandeur  to  the  scene  and  fully  entitle  it 
to  its  appellation  of  "  glorious  war."  This 
is  my  theatre,  here  I  prefer  to  combat; 
but  I  was  born  a  soldier,  and  ready  for  any 
kind  of  fighting.  Although  I  had  rather 
front  a  battery  of  forty  well-served  can- 
non than  be  tied  to  the  side  of  a  termagant 
who  displays  her  military  propensities  in 
curtain  lectures  and  fireside  hostilities.  I 
am  not  the  coward  to  shrink  from  any 
contest.  I  was  born  a  soldier,  and  born 
to  be  a  victor ;  and,  while  some  of  the  sex 
have  been  victimizing  others,  they  have, 
with  singular  infatuation,  invariably  fallen 
before  me.  I  am  the  avenger  of  my  sex, 
and  have  inflicted  on  the  wily  and  heart- 
less vixens  the  woes  and  infirmities  which 
.they  had  heaped  upon  the  heads  of  honest 
:  and  generous  lovers.  I  happily  came  into 
this  warfare  armed  with  a  brazen  face,  a 
cold,  selfish,  and  ambitious  heart,  and  .a 
lying  and  fluent  tongue— a  gentleman  who 
worshipped  honour,  but  only  that  ceremo- 
nious punctilio  which  all  gentlemen  are 
bred  to  observe  towards  each  other.  Na- 
ture was  also  liberal  to  my  person,  for  I 
had  a  bold  stare,  a  rakish  look,  a  goatish 
beard,  an  athletic  person,  and  a  strut  which 
a  newly-appointed  officer  might  envy.  I 
was  insensible  to  a  tender  emotion,  except 
at  a  window ;  and,  thus  prepared,  I  went 


I  did  not  carry  my  good  fortune  with 
me,  however;  and  so  unflattering  was  rav 
reception  by  the  lively  beauties  of  France, 
that  I  retired  to  the  country  town  of  Ca- 
hors,  and  took  up  my  lodgings  on  a  street 
all  the  windows  on  which  I  had  seen  filled 
with  female  faces.  My  only  acquaintance 
and  companion  was  a  certain  Captain  Eli 
Dujant,  a  droll  character,  who  told  me  that 
in  the  wars  in  Italy,  under  old  Marshal 
Villars,  he  commanded  a  company  of  dis- 
carded lovers,  who  were  the  most  despe- 
rate fighters  in  the  French  army.  They 
had  all  gone  to  the  wars  to  win  glorv  and 
break  the  hearts  of  their  mistresses  ]  and, 
as  their  fate  illustrates  a  certain  homely 
old  proverb  about  biting  off  the  nose  to 
spite  the  face,  I  will  here  record  it  for 
preservation  and  for  future  benefit.  At 
the  taking  of  Milan  seven  of  these  gallants 
were  left  on  the  field  of  battle,  buried  with 
the  undistinguished  and  unremembered 
dead.  Three  soon  after  perished  by  dis- 
ease— fifteen  were  killed  under  the  walls 
of  Parma,  and  some  twenty  or  thirty  Ave  re 
lost  by  various  casualties.  One  returned 
home  a  sous-lieutenant  on  one  leg  of  bane 
and  flesh  and  one  of  Avood,  and  found  his 
dulcinea  a  country  farmer's  wife  and  the 
mother  of  three  dirty  children:  another 
came  back  minus  an  arm,  a  lip,  and  half  a 
dozen  of  teeth,  to  recognize  his  quondam 
spiritual  mistress  in  the  fat  and  grea&y 
OAvner  of  a  village  bakery ;  a  third  iioav 
hops  about  a  hospital  on  Avooden  pin-: :  and 
the  fourth,  who  Avas  the  "captain  hii::>elf.. 
^.ives  upon  the  interest  of  a  small  estate.  (sj  a 
roistering,  boon  companion,  a  village  pot- 
house politician,  and  carries  in  his  face 
and  on  his  body  the  mark  of  almost  even- 
kind  of  Aveapon  used  in  Avar.  His  nose 
Avas  split  by  a  SAA^ord-cut,  his  cheeks  fm  - 
roAved  by  musket-balls,  his  chin  seamed 
With 'a  bayonet-thrust,  three  fingers  on  his 
right  hand  broken,  and  his  left  ankle  fit  <  - 
tured  by  a  spent  cannon-ball.  His  mis- 
tress had,  in  the  mean  time,  decamped  Avith 
a  strolling  dancing-master,  and  Captain 
Dujant,  thoroughly  cured  of  his  belief  in 
ideal  love,  very  philosophically  concltfcrcd 
to  take  the  Avorld  as  it  is.  I  did  riot  tell 
him    of  my  intended  window  campaign, 


ALAMANCE. 


103 


and  to  give  the  business  a  further  zest,  I 
would  not  permit  myself  to  hear  of  any 
lady's  name,  rank,  character,  or  age.  I 
sauntered  up  and  down  the  street  for  sev- 
eral evenings,  watching  to  see  who  noted 
my  appearance,  and  when  I  saw  that  I 
was  attentively  marked,  returning  imme- 
diately to  my  room  and  presenting  myself 
at  my  window,  I  found  that  I  had  at  last 
attracted  the  attention  of  a  beautiful  face, 
and  that  the  lady  had  ascertained  where  I 
lodged,  and,  as  it  seemed,  my  object.  This 
was  enough,  and  so  the  next  day  I  re- 
mained at  my  window,  and  so  did  she  at 
hers,  frequently  exhibiting  herself  to  the 
shoulders,  in  the  street.  The  next  day  I 
began  a  communication  with  signs — slight 
motions  of  my  hand — and  was  fairly  thrilled 
with  ecstacy  when  I  saw  her  hand  gently 
wave  in  return.  It  was  several  days  before 
we  could  make  distinct  and  significant  signs ; 
but  at  last  we  became  extremely  confiden- 
tial. I  was  delighted,  enraptured,  and  my 
happiness  exceeded  all  bounds  when  she, 
on  a  certain  day,  requested  me,  by  signs,  to 
be  under  her  window  at  eleven  that  night. 
At  the  appointed  hour  I  was  there — a  shut- 
ter opened,  a  small  white  hand  appeared, 
and  I  coughed  slightly  to  indicate  my  pres- 
ence. The  next  moment  a  ladder  of  ropes 
was  flung  out,  and  soon  I  was  at  the  win- 
dow, reflecting  on  nothing  and  glowing 
with  indescribable  emotion.  The  curtain 
was  raised,  a  light  flashed  in  my  eyes,  and, 
without  looking  before  me,  I  plunged  into 
the  room  and  found  myself  in  the  centre 
of  a  group  of  men.  I  was,  of  course,  em- 
barrassed, but  instantly  a  merry,  ringing 
laugh  behind  me  caused  me  to  turn,  and 
I  beheld,  beautiful  as  an  angel,  and  as 
innocent-looking,  my  window  acquaint- 
ance. 

Madam ,  first  announcing  her  own 

name,  continued,  "  This,  Mr.  Ross,  is  my 
father,  Monsieur  de ,  this  my  hus- 
band, and  these  my  brothers.  Thinking 
you  wished  to  visit  the  family,  Monsieur, 
and  knowing  your  penchant  for  making 
acquaintances  at  windows,  we  concluded 
it  would  be  gratifying  to  you  to  be  thus  in- 
troduced." 

"We  would  be  glad  to  see  you  often," 
said  the  husband,  "  and  if  such  a  mode  of 
visiting  is  most  agreeable  to  you,  the  rope- 
ladder  will  still  be  at  your  service,  and  the 
window  open,  though,  as  we  reside  down 
stairs,  it  would  suit  us(best  to  receive  you 
there.  I  suppose,  my  dear,"  turning  to  his 
wife,"  he  can  get  through  one  of  the  front 
windows  on  the  basement  story." 

"  Certainly,  my  love,"  answered  Madame 
-» — ,  with  a  sweet  smile  that  stung  my  soul, 
"certainly  Monsieur  can  come' through  the 
window  by  the  chimney,  and  I  will  have 
the  furniture  moved  out  of  his  way." 

Now,  if  I  had  had  less  effrontery  than 
the  renowned  namesake  of  Saint  Nicholas 


himself,  I  should  have  swooned,  and  have 
given  up  my  habit  of  window-gazing ;  but, 
happily  for  me,  the  shafts  of  wit  and  sar- 
casm could  not  penetrate  my  mail  of  brass. 
With  the  utmost  sang  froid  of  manner,  I 

bowed  to  Madame  ,  thanked  her  for 

her  kindness,  and  intimated  that  it  was  true 
I  had  wished  to  make  the  acquaintance  of 
her  family,  that  I  had  the  utmost  horror  of 
doors,  and  that,  having  now  accomplished 
my  object,  I  would  take  my  leave,  promis- 
ing to  call  again.  1  requested  permission, 
to  leave  as  I  had  entered,  and,  as  I  went 
down,  whether  by  accident  or  design  I 
know  not,  but  the  street  was  full  of  peo- 
ple, who  gathered  round  me,  and  seemed 
much  amused  at  my  situation.  I  was,  how- 
ever, consoled  with  the  reflection  that  they 
did  not  know  my  name,  when,  just  as  I 
touched  the  ground,  Madame's  husband 
bawled  out  from  the  window — "  Are  you 
safely  down,  Monsieur  Ross  V 

Was  I  cured  of  my  singular  passion? 
Not  at  all.  It  had  grown  with  my  growth, 
strengthened  with  advancing  years,  and 
though  I  was  yet  young,  quite  young,  I 
had  seen  too  much  pleasure  in  its  pursuit 
to  think  for  a  moment  of  giving  up  my 
most  cherished  occupation.  The  French 
are  the  most  liberal  and  philosophical  peo- 
ple in  the  world,  and  I  prove  this  assertion 
by  citing  the  fact  that  I  was  not  next  day 
mobbed  by  the  citizens  of  Cahors,  because 
I  was  a  mysterious  stranger,  who  would 
not  tell  his  business  or  form  intimacies  in 
the  town.  No  doubt  the  kindred  and 
friends  of  Madame  amused  them- 
selves sufficiently  at  my  expense  ;  but  no 
one  talked  to  me  or  interrupted  me,  and  so 
I  began  to  look  about  for  another  adven- 
ture. 

In  the  suburbs  of  the  town,  and  stand- 
ing by  itself,  was  a  neat  residence,  sur- 
rounded by  a  wilderness  of  flowers  and 
shrubbery,  and  wearing  an  air  of  seclusion 
and  privacy.  On  reconnoitring  it  atten- 
tively I  saw,  to  my  inexpressible  joy,  a 
corner  window  of  the  second  story  open, 
and  a  toilet-table,  and  other  indications 
that  the  room  was  inhabited  by  a  lady.  I 
had  no  doubt  but  that  she  was  as  fair  as 
one  of  the  blossoms  of  the  peach-trees 
whose  glorious  bloom  made  a  paradise  of 
a  neighbouring  orchard ;  and  the  situation 
of  the  house,  and  everything  about  it,  con- 
spired to  keep  up  the  illusion  that  some, 
tender  Amanda  resided  there.  The  win- 
dow, however,  was  nearly  obscured  by 
the  foliage  of  a  great  elm,  whose  leafy 
branches  covered  one  side  of  the  house, 
and  through  which  a  luxuriant  cypress- 
vine  had  woven  itself  into  a  tangled  web. 
Occasionally  I  could  see  the  flutter  of  a 
dress,  and  once  or  twice  a  gloved  hand 
was  thrust  out  to  cull  a  flower  from  the 
vine,  but  I  never  could  get  a  glimpse  of 
the  owner's  face.     What  astonished  me 


104 


ALAMANCE. 


still  more  was  the  entire  stillness  which 
pervaded  the  place,  and  the  absence  of 
any  living'  thing,  except  the  inhabitant  of 
the  enchanted  chamber.  I  still  kept  prowl- 
ing about  the  house  ;  and,  becoming  bolder 
and  more  impudent  than  ever  I  had  for- 
merly been,  I  one  day  went  into  the  yard, 
and,  finding  a  side  door  open,  I  walked 
into  the  house.  There  was  a  family  at 
dinner :  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  felt 
ashamed.  Had  the  tenants  been  ordinary 
people,  I  might,  perhaps,  have  conducted 
myself  with  my  usual  effrontery ;  but  at 
opposite  ends  of  the  table  sat  two  persons 
•whose  looks  awed  and  confused  me  not  a 
little.  The  one  was  a  hale,  but  venerable 
and  white-haired  man,  whose  lofty  fore- 
head seemed  to  have  been  made  for  a 
crown,  and  in  whose  face  Nature  had 
plainly  put  the  stamp  of  its  highest  order 
of  nobility — that  of  an  honest  man.  His 
looks  were  neither  stern  nor  timid,  and 
though  they  indicated  a  rather  .kind  and 
generous  disposition,  they  showed  that  a 
lion's  heart  beat  within  his  aged  bosom. 
The  opposite  character  was  a  lady,  and 
such  a  lady!  I  saw  her  but  a  moment, 
but  in  that  moment  her  face  was  so  im- 
pressed upon  my  mind  that  it  can  never 
be  effaced.  In  person  she  seemed  taller 
than  her  sex  usually  are,  yet  her  form  was 
so  slender,  so  symmetrical — her  move- 
ments so  graceful,  every  motion  of  her 
limbs  and  body  so  full  of  poetry,  that, 
when  you  did  not  see  her  eyes,  she  seemed 
an  airy,  light,  ethereal  creature,  an  unsub- 
stantial embodiment  of  beauty,  grace,  and 
sentiment.  Her  features,  however,  were 
rather  prominent,  and  her  pale,  blanched 
skin  seemed  perfectly  white  when  con- 
trasted with  the  raven  hair  that  was  gath- 
ered into  a  massive  pile  upon  the  crown 
of  her  head,  and  with  her  large,  lustrous, 
fiery,  black  eyes,  that  indicated  a  slumber- 
ing volcano  in  her  breast.  There  were 
other  persons  at  the  table ;  hut  1  paid  no 
attention  to  them,  stammering  out,  in 
French,  a  hasty  apology  for  my  intrusion, 
and  alleging  that  I  had  mistaken  the 
house. 

"  Your  accent  declares  you  to  be  my 
countryman,"  said  the  old  man,  in  English, 
"  and  I  will  venture  to  address  you  as 
such.     Whom  were  you  seeking1?" 

"  Captain  Dujant,"  I  replied,  in  the  same 
language,  and  holding  out  my  hand,  con- 
tinued, "  I  am  glad,  sir,  that  I  have  found 
a  countryman,  and  should  be  still  more 
happy  to  make  your  acquaintance."    . 

"  I  am  incog,  for  the  present,"  said  he, 
rather  coldly  ;  and,  as  he  was  one  of  those 
whose  slightest  words  are  to  be  obeyed,  I 
took  my  leave.  As  I  went  out  at  the  door 
I  cast  a  longing  glance  at  the  lady,  and  a 
slight  colour  mantled  her  cheeks  as  her 
glowing  eyes  melted  into  mine.  I  was 
now  keenly  desirous  of  following  up  my 


adventure,  and  taking  my  friend,  the  cap- 
tain, into  my  confidence,  we  agreed  that  it 
was  best  to  give  the  lady  some  hint  of  my 
passion  in  plainer  language  than  that  of 
signs.  As  every  French  gentleman  can 
write  gentlemanly  verses,  the  captain  com- 
posed, and  I  translated,  the  following : 

IMPROMPTU, 

On  seeing  at  Table  a  beautiful  Lady,  whose  acquaint- 
ance the  Author  was  not  allowed  to  make. 

"  But  for  the  place  where  first  my  eyes 

Beheld  that  pale,  fair  face  of  thine, 
I  should  have  thought  thee  from  the  skies, 

And  now  believe  thee  half  divine. 
Yet  still  I  must  in  conscience  say, 

I  hope  you  may  a  mortal  prove ; 
At  least  that  one  poor  mortal  may 

Attain  the  heaven  of  thy  love. 
But  1,  alas  !  may  never  know 

But  what  thou  art  a  bloodless  sprite, 
A  sweet,  but  unsubstantial  show, 

A  beauteous,  airy  form  of  light. 
To  solve  this  doubt  within  my  mind, 

I've  wish'd  (forgive  me)  that  I  could 
Once  clasp  thy  lily  hand  in  mine 

And  feel  if  it  be  flesh  and  blood  !" 

That  night  we  treated  the  strange  lady 
to  a  serenade,  and,  as  her  window  was 
open,  I  flung  into  it  a  perfumed  pair  of 
tiny  gloves,  in  which  my  verses  were  fold- 
ed, and  then  hastily  left  the  place.  As  ray 
place  of  residence  was  too  far  from  the 
window  to  undertake  to  communicate  by 
signs  from  my  own  window,  and  as  it  was 
indelicate  to  stand  in  the  street  gazing  at 
the  lady's  chamber,  I  could  only  pass  it 
and  make  signals  as  I  walked.  On  the 
following  morning  after  the  serenade,  I 
could  see  that  the  fair  stranger  was  sitting 
by  her  window,  for  a  portion  of  her  body 
was  visible,  though  her  face  was  con- 
cealed. A  hand  with  a  glove  on  it — not 
one  of  those  I  threw  into  the  chamber — 
was  thrust  out,  and  it  waved  and  moved  in 
answer  to  the  motion  of  mine.  I  was  en- 
raptured, and  passed  often  that  day,  the 
hand  still  answering  to  mine,  whose  lan- 
guage became  bolder  and  more  significant. 
The  next  day  the  window  was  closed,  and 
the  next ;  and  again  having  recourse  to  my 
friend,  the  captain,  he  soon  ascertained  for 
me  that  the  bird  had  flown.  The  family 
had,  in  fact,  left  the  town ;  but  their  prob- 
able destination  was  ascertained  by  the 
captain,  who  had  a  lively  curiosity,  and 
who  had  become  my  devoted  friend,  taking 
a  prodigious  interest  in  my  window  ad- 
ventures. The  novelty  and  excitement 
of  such  an  occupation  pleased  him  greatly, 
and  when  I  began  to  prepare  for  my  de- 
parture to  Bordeaux,  he  declared  his  reso- 
lution of  bearing  me  company.  At.  Bor- 
deaux the  captain  had  acquaintances,  and 
he  learned  that  the  very  day  before  we 
arrived  a  family,  answering  to  the  descrip- 
tion of  those  we  were  pursuing,  had  taken 
passage  to  the  island  of  Cuba. 

All  the  soldier  in  my  nature  was  now 


ALAMANCE. 


105 


fully  aroused,  and  in  a  few  days  the  cap- 
tain and  myself  were  on  board  the  Nep- 
tune, on  our  way  to  the  port  of  Havanna. 
In  this  last-mentioned  city  we  were  both 
total  strangers  ;  but  we  paraded  the  streets 
morning  and  evening,  scanning  every  face 
we  saw  at  the  doors  and  at  the  windows 
of  the  houses,  and  carriages.  At  last,  in  a 
quiet  part  of  the  town,  the  identical  gloved- 
hand  I  had  seen  so  often  in  Cahors  waved 
.  at  us  from  an  upper  window.  I  was  trans- 
ported with  pleasure,  and  a  lively  panto- 
mimic conversation  sprung  up,  the  French- 
man joining  in  with  more  zeal  than  grace, 
and  accompanying  the  rapid  and  extraor- 
dinary evolutions  of  his  hands,  head,  and 
body,  with  a  running  commentary  which 
brought  upon  us  the  gaze  of  all  the  neigh- 
bourhood. After  several  mute  conversa- 
tions, I  at  length  determined  to  scale  the 
window,  when,  one  moonlight  night,  as  a 
carriage  passed  me,  two  eyes  which  I  could 
not  mistake  gleamed  upon  me.  I  watched 
the  vehicle,  keeping  my  eyes  fixed  upon  it 
among  the  crowd  of  chaises  that  dashed 
through  the  streets,  and  marking  every 
peculiarity  about  it  until  I  was  satisfied  I 
should  always  know  it.  That  night  it 
passed  me  several  times,  and  several  times 
the  bright  meteors  within  shone  upon  me 
with  an  expression  that  convinced  me  I 
was  known.  At  length  I  took  my  station 
near  the  house  where  I  supposed  the  lovely 
unknown  resided,  and,  to  my  unbounded 
astonishment,  her  carnage  drove  up  to  an 
opposite  house,  into  which  its  beautiful 
tenant  was  escorted.  Here  was  a  mys- 
tery, land  it  was  rendered  still  darker  on 
the  following  morning  by  the  discovery 
that  the  gloved  hand  did  not  belong  to  the 
lady  I  had  met  at  the  table  in  Cahors. 
The  face  of  this  latter  I  distinctly  saw  at 
an  upper  window ;  and  as-  she  seemed  to 
"recognise  me  with  some  emotion,  I  gave 
up^to  the  Frenchman  the  pursuit  of  the 
gloved  hand,  concealing,  however,  my  rea- 
sons, and  only  alleging  a  new  adventure." 
Here  the  master's  reading  was  inter- 
rupted by  piercing  screams  and  piteous 
entreaties  for  mercy,  issuing  from  the 
neighbouring  woods.  The  master,  ever 
ready  to  succour  the  distressed,  and  Rust, 
ever  keen  for  an  adventure,  rushed  off  in 
the  direction  of  the  sound,  and,  in  a  solitary 
glade,  in  a  deep  and  darkly-shaded  valley 
or  glen,  saw  what  the  reader  will  hear  of 
in  the  following  chapter. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

AN    OLD    ACQUAINTANCE    AND    A   NEW   ONE. 

As  the  master  and  Rust  approached,  they 
found  three  men,  two  of  whom  seemed  to 
be  the  prisoners  of  the  third.  One  of  the 
former  was  secured  to  a  tree,  while  at  the 
root  of  a  solitary  hickory,  in  the  centre  of 


the  glen,  kneeled  the  other,  his  hands  tied 
behind  his  back,  a  rope  round  his  bare 
neck,  and  his  eyes  fixed  upon  his  captor, 
who  was  in  the  tree,  and  preparing  to  hang 
the  suppliant  below.  The  yquth  above 
had  contrived  to  bring  up  a  heavy  beam  of 
wood,  and  when  first  seen  he  was  in  the 
act  of  fastening  this  to  his  feet,  whereby 
the  master  instantly  concluded  that  he  in- 
tended to  raise  his  prisoner  by  swinging 
himself  to  the  other  end  of  the  rope.  It 
was  a  singular  and  novel  spectacle ;  but 
before  the  Alamancers  had  time  to  make 
a  remark  an  eagle-glance  was  upon  them  : 
the  man  up  the  tree  was  instantly  on  his 
feet,  and,  raising  his  rifle,  said,  "  Stand  and 
tell  whether  you  are  Whigs,  Tories,  or 
British !" 

The  master  now  recollected  his  folly  in 
having  hurried  off  without  his  arms ;  but 
Rust,  who  had  been  more  mindful,  pre- 
sented his  gun,  exclaiming,  "  Fire  at  your 
friend !     Blaze  away  if  you  can  at  a  Whig." 

The  young  stranger  dropped  his  piece, 
and  a  smile  spreading  over  his  thin  and 
sallow  visage,  he  held  out  his  hand,  and 
frankly  declared  that  he  also  was  a  Whig. 
The  "master,  as  he  approached,  was  recog- 
nised by  the  culprit  at  the  tree,  who  proved 
to  be  the  veritable  John  Nipper  himself, 
and  who  was  extravagant  in  his  expres- 
sions of  delight  at  the  unexpected  meet- 
ing. The  faces  of  the  good  and  generous 
cause  them  to  be  heavily  taxed  by  two 
classes  of  persons  :  they  render  them  the 
prey  of  the  evil-designing,  and  they  cause 
even  strangers  and  brutes,  when  in  dis- 
tress, to  appeal  to  them  for  help.  John, 
who  had  rightly  scanned  the  master's  coun- 
tenance, and  had  formerly  played  upon  his 
simplicity,  had  now  the  bold  effrontery  to 
address  him  as  a  friend,  and  confidently  to 
demand  his  protection.  M'Bride  was  em- 
barrassed by  the  impostor's  attentions  ;  but 
his  kind  and  merciful  heart  was  touched, 
and  he  began  to  interfere  in  Nipper's  be- 
half, when  the  young  South  Carolinian, 
searching  his  face  with  his  sharp,  grey 
eyes,  asked,  "  Is  he  your  friend,  sir?" 

"  I  claim  friendship  with  no  such  man,"' 
answered  the  master,  irritated  by  the  ques^ 
tioner's  words  and  manner ;  "  but  he  is  a 
poor  devil,  and  I  trust  you  will  not  stain 
your  hands  with  his  blood." 

"  Look  at  that  paper,  sir,"  said  the  other, 
"  and  see  if  he  is  a  poor  devil.  I  believe 
your  name  is  M'Bride." 

The  master  opened  the  paper  and  found 
what  follows: — "A  covvy  of  too,  Leften- 
nant  Hector  Macbride  and  Capting  Kurne- 
lius  Demmijon.  Macbride  has  short  legs, 
grey  eyes,  a  little  bald  on  the  top  of  his 
hed,  has  bin  a  schoolmaster,  talks  a  grate 
deel,  is  verry  larned,  and  a  grate  fule. 
Demmijon — verry  fat,  red  in  the  face,  big 
blue  eyes,  black  hare,  and  dont  say  much  ; 
drinks  like  the  devil — a  bite." 


100 


A  L  A  M  A  N  C  E. 


There  were  other  particulars  in  regard 
to  the  Alamancers,  their  place  of  residence, 
their  present  location,  business,  and  the 
probable  rout  they  would  take  after  seeing 
the  widow  Powell.  The  master  was  be- 
wildered, astounded,  and  infuriated  ;  and, 
looking  first  at  Nipper  and  then  at  the 
Carolinian,  the  latter  said,  "  I  see  you  are 
at  a  loss.  Now  you  must  know  that  this 
Nipper,  whose  real  name  is  Joseph  Shanks, 
is  one  of  the  greatest  rogues,  the  most 
diabolical  villain  and  Tory  in  all  the  coun- 
try." 

The  master  then  learned  that  this  Shanks, 
and  several  others  in  Georgia  and  South 
Carolina,  had  banded  together  to  plunder 
and  murder  the  patriots.  That  they  were 
ever  prowling  about  the  country,  singly 
and  in  pairs,  passing  under  assumed  names, 
noting  the  persons  whom  they  met  with, 
and  then  giving  information  to  the  gang, 
who  held  stated  meetings.  He  learned 
also  that  these  robbers  added  to  their  pro- 
fession another  occupation  which  exceed- 
ed in  villainy  any  thing  of  which  the  mas- 
ter had  ever  conceived.  They  would  hunt 
out  lonely  widows  and  unprotected  single 
women,  insinuate  themselves  into  their 
good  graces,  get  married  to  them  by  one 
of  their  band,  who  personated  a  clergy- 
man, and  then  remain  with  their  supposed 
wives  only  long  enough  to  turn  their  effects 
into  money,  when  they  would  desert  them. 

"  This  scoundrel,  Shanks,"  continued  the 
South  Carolinian,  "  while  I  was  upon  his 
track,  married  and  plundered  the  widow 
Powell,  a  simple-hearted  woman,  and  an 
old  acquaintance  of  my  mother.  I  fol- 
lowed the  incarnate  devil,  and  at  last  over- 
took him  and  two  of  his  associates,  who 
had  camped  in  an  old  school-house.  I 
shot  one  through  a  crack  in  the  wall,  and 
the  others  surrendered." 

The  master  found,  on  further  enquiry, 
that  the  slave,  and  effects,  and  some  of  the 
money  of  Shank's  last  victim  had  been 
returned  to  her,  and  that  it  was  the  pur- 
pose of  their  captor  to  hang  his  prisoners. 
I  le  endeavoured  to  dissuade  the  youth  from 
the  commission  of  such  hasty  and  extreme 
punishment,  urging  that  it  was  better  the 
guilt)^  should  escape  than  that  they  should 
be  executed  without  due  form  of  law.  The 
Carolinian,  however,  was  determined  on 
his  purpose,  declaring  that  he  would  take 
the  responsibility  of  executing  Shanks  at 
least :  and  as  the  master  wished  not  to  see 
the  scene,  he  returned  to  his  friends  from 
Alamance.  Rust,  who  was  prodigiously 
taken  with  his  new  acquaintance,  remained 
to  assist  him  in  the  execution,  and  for  an 
hour  afterwards  such  piteous  moans,  en- 
treaties, and  lamentations  issued  from  the 
woods,  as  satisfied  M'Bride  that  the  other 
wretch  was  undergoing  a  torture  not  much 
more  desirable  than  the  pangs  of  death. 
It  was  true  enough,  for  the  arm  of  Rust 


had  lost  none  of  its  vigour,  nor  had  his 
taste  for  welting  the  backs  of  Tories  been 
at  all  diminished.  When,  in  his  own  lan- 
guage, he  had  sufficiently  curried  the  Geor- 
gia Colt,  he  dressed  him,  and  conducted 
him  and  his  captor  to  the  presence  of  the 
master  and  his  companions.  As  the  youth- 
ful and  strange  Whig  approached,  his  coun- 
tenance and  his  maimer  excited  general 
attention.  He  was  yet  a  mere  lad,  tall, 
slender,  and  awkward,  but  with  sinews 
that  seemed  to  be  wires  of  steel.  He  was 
plainly,  even  meanly  dressed,  clumsy  in 
his  address,  and  simple  in  his  manners  ; 
and,  though  so  lately  acting  the  hero  and 
the  executioner,  he  now  showed,  by  his 
candour  and  simplicity,  that  he  was  an 
unsuspicious  boy.  He  believed  whatever 
was  told  to  him,  and  was  greatly  pleased 
with  the  attentions  paid  him  by  the  master 
and  his  friends,  with  childish  sincerity  as- 
suring them,  after  their  compliments  on 
his  bravery,  that  he  was  their  friend  for 
life.  "  If  ever  any  of  you  get  into  trouble, 
call  on  me,"  said  he,  "  and  I'll  protect  you." 

The  company  gazed  at  each  other ;  Rust, 
who  liked  the  lad,  turned  his  head  to  avoid 
any  display  of  his  feelings  at  such  a  singu- 
lar boast,  and  the  master,  smiling,  said, 
"  You  have,  my  young  friend,  truly,  done 
wonders,  but  you  must  not  be  too  confident. 
When  I  first  saw  you  I  thought  you  cruel 
and  revengeful,  but  I  was  mistaken ;  and 
I  now  doubt  not  that  your  apparent  cruelty 
is  the  result  of  ah  ardent  and  rather  hasty 
desire  to  administer  justice.  It's  a  gener- 
ous but  a  dangerous  trait,  and  the  best 
thing  I  can  do  for  you  is  to  guard  you 
against  it." 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  answered  the  youth, 
a  glow  kindling  on  his  well-marked  face. 
"  If  you  know  a  man  has  committed  a  crime, 
and  have  him  in  your  power,  why  permit, 
him  to  run  the  chances  of  an  escape  by  a 
tedious  trial,  where  form  more  than  jus- 
tice is  regarded  ?  Besides,  these  are  rev- 
olutionary times ;  the  country  is  in  a  glo- 
rious war  for  liberty,  and,  as  the  people 
have  said  all  the  tyrants  and  Tories  must 
die,  they  shall,  by  the  eternal,  when  they 
fall  into  my  hands.  This  rascal, '  turning 
to  the  Tory,  "  I  have  saved  for  a  particular 
purpose.  You  are  at  liberty,  Jack,  and 
mark  me !  if  you  regard  your  life,  igo 
straight  to  your  masters,  the  British,  and 
tell  them  that  I  shall  remember  them,  and 
that  1  hope  we'll  meet  again." 

The  Tory  promised  to  do  as  he  was 
bade ;  and  the  young  Carolinian,  resisting 
all  the  importunities  of  the  master  to  go 
with  him,  took  leave  of  the  Alamancer.s, 
declaring  that  he  could  take  care  of  him- 
self. "  I  wish,"  says  the  master  in  his 
notes,  "  I  had  a  sketch  of  his  face,  for  it 
was  a  remarkable  one.  I  have  often  la- 
mented my  want  of  ability  to  draw,  for  I 
meet  with  many  strange  and  uncouth  faces, 


ALAMANCE. 


107 


buto'el  all  I-  ever  saw  that  of  the  rude  young 
Carolinian,  for  its  boldness,  sternness,  and 
well-marked  and  rugged  features,  im- 
pressed me  most.  If  the  lad  lives,  he  will 
yet  emerge  from  obscurity,  and  will  at 
least  obtain  a  local  notoriety  if  he  does  not 
become  somewhat  distinguished  in  his 
State.  His  name,  as  he  told  me.  was  An- 
drew Jackson." 

V 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  ALAN  ROSS  CONTINUED. 

The* "Alamancers,  after  the  events  re- 
lated in  the  last  chapter,  thought  it  prudent 
to  resume  their  journey.  At  noon  on  the 
following  day  they  halted  again,  as  on  {he 
day  previous,  and  the  master,  while  his 
friends  were  refreshing  and  resting  them- 
selves, finished  the  Scotchman's  story. 

",£lne  night,"  continued  the  manuscript 
of  Ross,  "my  friend,  Captain  Dujant,  rushed 
into  my  room  more  excited  than  even  any 
Frenchman  I  ever  saw.  His  eyes  were 
rolling  wildly  in  his  head,  his  hair  stood  out 
like  the  quills  of  the  fretful  porcupine,  his 
nostrils  were  distended,  his  dress  disor- 
dered, and  his  mouth  foaming ;  and,  fling- 
ing his  hat  on  the  floor  he  stamped,  chafed, 
and  jumped  about  like  a  madman. 

"  What,  in  the  devil's  name,  is  the  mat- 
ter, captain'?"  asked  I,  rising  to  my  feet 
and  avoiding  him  as  I  would  a  frantic  bed- 
lamite.      < 

"  Mattaire !"  shouted  he,  in  broken  En- 
glish, ^Mattaire!  Vat  de  mattaire'?  Ciel ! 
Diable't  Tamnation!" 

And  here  he  let  forth  a  volley  of  excla- 
mations in  English,  French,  Dutch,  Rus- 
sian, and  Sclavonic,  for  aught  I  could  tell, 
fot\  leould'  not  understand  a  word  he  said 
format  least  half  an  hour,  during  all  of 
Which  time  his  arms,  legs,  head,  hands, 
bodyv  and  tongue  seemed  to  be  talking,  for 
such- vivacity  of  action,  serio-comicality  of 
manner,  and  volubility  of  speech  it  is  im- 
possible for  the  most  lively  imagination 
tb '-'picture  to  itself.  I  found  out  at  last 
that  he  had  scaled  his  lady's  window;  but 
what  :  terrible  accident  had  happened  to 
him  I  could  not  learn.  I  was,  however, 
dragged  by  him  to  the  residence  of  his  mis- 
tress, and,: approaching  a  basement  win- 
dow,, he  suddenly  halted;  and,  staring  as  if 
he  had  seen  the  great  beast  spoken  of  in 
the  Revelations  of  St.  John,  he  cried, 
pointing  at  the  window,  "  Voila,  voila — re- 
gardez!" 

i  approached  the  aperture,  and  scan- 
ning -the  room,  I  saw,  reclining  on  cush- 
ions! and  fanning  herself,  the  mysterious 
owner  of  the  gloved  hand.  Her  skin  was 
as-  black  as  the  darkness  of  an  Egyptian 
night,  her  hair  short  and  crispy,  and  her 
iifose  as.fiat;  as  a  flounder,  while  her  great 


white  eyes  glistened  in  the  centre  of  her 
huge  fat  face,  like  two  moons  in  a  firma- 
ment of  ink. 

While  I  was  still  gazing  at  her  she  rose 
and  advanced  towards  the  window,  and,  as 
I  was  hid  myself,  I  was  able  to  obtain  a  full 
view  of  the  figure  of  this  African  Venus. 
She  was  but  little  taller  when  standing 
than  she  had  been  in  her  recumbent  pos- 
ture, and  there  was  about  as  little  undula- 
tion in  her  form  as  there  is  in  a  hogshead 
of  Jamaica  rum,  which  she  much  resem- , 
bled.  Her  walk  was  a  sort  of  a  waddle, 
and  through  the  thin  and  elegant  drapery 
in  which  she  was  attired  the  perspiration 
was  pouring  out  in  streams,  while  there 
was  a  fragrance  about  the  room  which  an 
American  planter  will  readily  understand. 
She  came  to  the  window,  looked  up  at  the 
moon,  and,  heaving  a  deep  sigh,  ejaculated 
in  broken  French  a  tender  sentiment  about 
Monsieur  Dujant.  This  last-named  wor- 
thy, as  if  fearful  of  being  devoured  by  the 
monster  before  him,  seized  my  arm,  and, 
trembling  like  an  aspen,  hurried  me  from 
the  scene.  When  we  had  arrived  at  my 
room,  Captain  Dujant  had  sufficiently  re- 
covered to  give  me  a  tolerably  intelligible 
account  of  his  adventure.  It  seems  that 
the  abstract  of  sentimentalism  of  a  win- 
dow flirtation  was  too  rarefied  a  diet  for 
a  Frenchman's  heart,  and,  from  making 
signs,  he  took  to  writing  letters,  and  was 
finally  so  far  admitted  into  the  lady's  con- 
fidence as  to  be  informed  by  her  that  she 
was  the  arbiter  of  her  own  destiny  and  im- 
mensely rich.  The  Frenchman  was  so 
carried  away  by  the  enthusiasm  inspired 
by  the  chase,  that  he  contracted  an  alli- 
ance with  the  unknown  beauty,  and  it  was 
finally  agreed  that  he  should  see  her. 
What  took  place  at  the  interview  no  one 
will  ever  know,  as  the  captain  becomes  so 
much  excited  when  he  gets  to  this  point 
that  the  most  expert  linguist  cannot  under- 
stand a  word  he  says.  The  next  day  he 
was  on  his  way  to  "  la  belle  France,"  and 
I  have  not  heard  of  him  since,  though  I 
cannot  but  feel  grateful  towai*ds  him  for 
having  taken  off  my  hands  the  veiled  beau- 
ty of  the  mysterious  chamber.  His  ab- 
sence caused  me  a  slight  depression  of 
feeling ;  and,  as  I  was  sauntering  about  in 
the  cool  of  the  evening,  I  was  accosted  by 
name  by  a  young  man  who  met  me.  He 
informed  me  that  he  was  the  son  of  the 
gentleman  whom  I  had  so  unceremoni- 
ously visited  in  the  town  of  Cahors,  and 
that  his  father,  having  learned  my  name, 
lineage,  and  fidelity  to  the  House  of  Stuart, 
was  desirous  of  making  my  acquaintance. 
The  old  man  had  learned  part  of  my  his- 
tory from  the  Frenchman,  without  being 
known  to  him,  and  I  was  startled  at  hear- 
ing that  his  name  was  Duncan  Stuart.  His 
veins  were  rich  with  the  blood-royal  of  the 
ancient  house  whose  name  he  bore,  and 


108 


ALAMANCE. 


he  was,  in  fact,  as  I  knew  by  the  court 
calendar,  but  three  degrees  removed  from 
the  throne.  Of  course  he  hated  the  Guelphs, 
and  the  Guelphs,  as  he  supposed,  hated 
him,  and  he  was  a  fugitive  from  that  be- 
loved land  over  which  his  noble  ancestors 
had  swayed  the  sceptre  of  kings.  Such  is 
the  course  of  things  here  in  the  eternal 
race  for  power — peasants  shoving  princes 
from  their  thrones,  and  the  descendants  of 
princes  seeking  protection  among  republi- 
can rebels.  Such  was  the  fate  of  Duncan 
Stuart — what  glorious  names  in  Scottish 
annals ! — and  he  was  now  actually  on  his 
way  to  America.  Thus  was  I  meditating 
when  I  entered  the  house  where  the  Stu- 
arts were  staying ;  but  my  philosophical 
musing  was  quickly  ended  by  the  flash  of 
those  eyes  of  liquid  fire.  I  was  formally 
introduced  to  the  blushing  lady,  whose 
Christian  name  of  Louise  was  only  pro- 
nounced by  Duncan  Stuart.  I  soon  found 
that  her  mind  was  quick,  profound,  and 
cultivated,  her  fancy  vivid,  lively,  and  brill- 
iant, and  her  heart  susceptible  of  the  most 
varied  and  intense  emotions.  She  was, 
in  fact,  the  most  inflammable  creature  I 
ever  saw,  keenly  sensible  of  pain  or  pleas- 
ure, with  lively  feeling  relishing  the  deli- 
cate sallies  of  wit,  the  bright  pictures  of 
fancy,  and  the  sadder,  yet.  sweeter  touches 
of  sentiment.  Withal  she  was  passionate, 
and  never  was  there  such  a  compound  of 
the  ethereal  and  sensual — such  a  blending 
in  one  soul  of  the  celestial  tints  of  Para- 
dise with  the  grosser  colours  of  earth.  Her 
conversation  was  like  the  display  of  Chi- 
nese fireworks,  now  the  sparkles  of  fancy, 
with  ten  thousand  varied,  soft,  and  tender 
hues  would  gleam,  like  the  spray  from  a 
fountain  of  liquid  diamonds,  or  like  a 
shower  of  cinders  from  the  altars  in 
heaven ;  now  the  coruscations  of  her  wit 
would  flash  in  quick  succession  vividly  and 
brightly  as  the  arrows  of  the  clouds,  and 
anon  the  meteors  of  wilder  and  deeper 
thought,  with  their  strange  and  novel 
shapes,  would  shoot  athwart  the  dark  firm- 
ament of  speculation,  leaving  long,  spiral 
tracks  of  light  behind  them.  One  strung 
with  nicer  sensibilities  than  myself  would 
have  been  amused,  charmed,  awed,  and 
impressed,  now  with  a  happy  train  of 
thought,  and  now  with  a  touching  strain 
of  unspeakable  pathos  ;  but  I  was  thinking 
only  of  a  new  and  brilliant  conquest.  True, 
I  could  fain  sentiment ;  and,  as  we  sat  in 
the  sleeping  moonlight,  which,  in  that 
tropical  clime,  lit  up  the  earth  with  hues 
that  seemed  to  be  lent  from  some  dreamy 
and  celestial  land  of  blessed  spirits,  I  was 
doing  my  best  to  entertain  my  companion 
with  that  courtly  discourse  with  which  I 
had  shone  in  the  polished  circles  of  Eu- 
rope, when  suddenly  the  sound  of  a  guitar 
floated  softly  through  the  air,  and  fell  in 
plaintive  melody  on  our  ears.     My  fair 


friend  became  instantly  attentive,  and,  fol- 
lowing her  example,  I  listened  also,  and, 
to  my  astonishment,  heard  a  rich  and  me- 
lodious voice  accompanying  the  music 
with  the  following  song  in  English  : 

"  'Twas  in  my  boyhood's  early  prime, 
And  in  my  own  fair  sunny  clime, 
One  hazy,  dreamy,  summer  day, 
Beneath  a  willow-tree  I  lay  ; 
The  babbling  sound  of  waters  near 
Fell  softly  on  the  drowsy  ear, 
With  tinkling  bells  of  browsing  herds, 
And  hum  of  bees,  and  song  of  birds  ; 
Above  me  glow'd  a  cloudless  sheen,    .  • 
Around  me  hills  and  meadows  green, 
And  many  a  wide  and  level  plain, 
O'er  which  there  waved  the  yellow  grain: 
'Twas  there  that  in  my  waking  dreams, 
Fair  as  the  dawn's  lirst  trembling  beams, 
And  tender  as  the  starry  night, 

.Though  clothed  in  Heaven's  own  purest  light, 

fA  voiceless  spirit  smiled  on  mine 

*And  bound  it  with  a,  spell  divine. 
And  ever  since  that  happy  hour 
In  festive  hall  and  rustic  bower, 
Through  crowded  streets  and  shady  wooda, 
And  Nature's  deepest  solitudes, 
I  follow'd  still  that  spirit's  face, 
But  sought  in  vain  its  dweJling-place, 
Until  I  saw  those  eyes  of  thine, 
Where  faith  unchanging,  love  divine, 
So  meekly  yet  so  brightly  shine, 
And  where  there  beams  a  heart  that  now 
Is  stainless  as  thy  marble  brow. 
Oh.  dear  Louise  !   how  like  a  star 
Of  Iran's  summer  skies  you  are  ! 
How  like  a  flower  that  scents  the  vale, 
Or  maiden  in  a  fairy  tale  ! 
So  dreamy,  light,  so  sweet,  so  wild, 
A  sylph  in  form,  in  heart  a  child  ; 
While  like  the  hum  of  distant  bees, 
Or  like  the  sigh  of  Autumn's  breeze, 
Or  like  the  notes  of  birds  in  Spring 
When  Nature  sports  her  robes  of  green, 
Thy  voice,  low,  plaintive,  soft,  and  clear, 
Doth  fall  so  witching  on  the  ear, 
That  from  this  earth  my  spirit  flies, 
And  dreams  itself  in  Paradise  !" 

I  have  preserved  the  words,  not  because 
they  were  beautiful  in  themselves,  but 
because  they  recall  the  happy  emotions 
which  their  first  recital  produced,  and  on 
account  of  the  singular  character  of  the  au- 
thor. The  time,  the  air,  and  the  company 
and  country  in  which  I  then  was,  caused 
them  to  fill  me  with  a  glow  I  never  felt 
before  ;  and  my  companion,  observing  my 
feelings,  seemed  to  exhibit  more  sympathy 
with  them  than  I  cared  to  see.  The  demon 
of  jealousy  was  aroused,  but  I  concealed 
my  thoughts,  and  heard,  with  apparent  in- 
terest, that  the  serenader  was  a  young  and 
adventurous  American,  who  had  been  ship- 
wrecked, and  had  had  a  rather  romantic 
introduction  to  Louise  and  the  Stuarts.  I 
saw  him  next  day,  and  one  glance  showed 
me  the  son«of  genius  and  poetry.  He  was 
quite  a  youth,  small  and  tender  as  a 
maiden,  whom  he  might  well  have  per- 
sonated but.  for  his  high,  broad  forehead, 
"  sicklied  over  with  the  pale  cast  of 
thought,"  and  the  fire  of  his  dark  eyes, 
which  threw  over  his  face  the  light  of  a 


ALAMANCE. 


109 


bright  intellect,  and  a  heart  of  pure,  fer- 
vid, and  exalted  sentiment.  It  was  a  face 
beaming  with  a  world  of  glorious  mean- 
ing, and  you  could  see  at  once  that  his 
unfathomed  soul  was  a  crystal  sea  of  light, 
not  coloured  by  the  faintest  stain  of  base- 
ness or  sensuality.  It  was  evident  that  he 
loved  Louise  with  the  holy  and  impas- 
sioned fervour  which  can  only  burn  in  the 
breasts  of  earth's  finest  mould,  and  I  ob- 
served that  he  had  made  a  decided  impres- 
sion on  the  lady.  I  had  the  advantage, 
however,  in  being  an  inmate  in  the  house 
of  Duncan  Stuart  and  his  most  intimate 
friend,  and  so  I  took  my  time  in  carrying 
on  the  siege,  gradually  poisoning  the  mind 
of  Louise  with  my  own  sentiments,  and 
endeavouring  to  give  the  animal  ascen- 
dancy over  the  ethereal  in  her  nature.  In 
the  mean  time  we  all  came  to  America, 
and,  Stuart  continuing  his  confidence,  I 
remained  his  guest,  and  my  rival  hung 
about  in  the  neighbourhood,  observing, 
with  inexpressible  anguish,  the  palling  of 
his  hopes,  and  breathing  his  passion  in 
prose  and  in  verse,  whose  words  ought  to 
have  melted  the  most  obdurate  heart.  But 
Louise  was  now,  mentally,  my  prisoner. 
Her  sentiment  was  gradually  fading,  and 
she,  by  degrees,  learning  to  ridicule  and 
hate  the  man  who  was  so  much  like  her 
original  self. 

Stuart  had  settled  in  the  southern  part* 
of  North  Carolina,  and  soon  gallants  and 
suitors,  from  far  and  near,  gathered  round 
the  lady  who  had  grown  up  under  his  roof 
and  next  to  his  heart,  and  between  whom 
and  himself  there  was  some  mysterious 
connection.  I  cared  not  to  unravel  it,  and 
was  fully  satisfied  in  knowing  that  I  was 
intensely  loved  by  this  fair  unknown,  and 
that  I  was  master  of  her  will.  The  most 
fiendish  passions  took  possession  of  my 
heart.  I  secretly  built  me  a  cottage  in  a 
secluded  vale  on  the  banks  of  the  Claren- 
don* river,  and  began  to  hint  to  Louise  my 
infernal  designs.  At  first  she  was  startled ; 
but  I  soon  overcame  her  opinions,  and  she 
finally  began  to  agree  with  me  that  mar- 
riage was  invented  only  for  the  animated 
clods  of  earth — a  slavish  institution,  which 
quenched  the  fires  of  love,  and  entailed 
misery  on  its  votaries.  Of  course,  I  be- 
lieved no  such  thing ;  but  my  tender  friend 
imbibed  the  opinion  with  ardour,  and  be- 
came so  devoted  to  me  that  her  principal 
amusement  consisted  in  the  ridiculing  of 
thqge  who  demanded  her  hand  in  wedlock. 
She  even  went  so  far  as  to  make  a  regis- 
ter of  the  names,  appearance,  actions,  and 
sayings  of  her  suitors,  and  this  she  gave  to 
me,  and  will  be  sealed  up  in  this  history. 

Tales  of  scandal  began,  at  last,  to  creep 
abroad ;  and  my  first  rival,  who  now  des- 
paired of  success,  and  who  was  one  of  the 

*  Clarendon  :  this  was  the  original  name  of  the 
Cape  Fear. — Ed. 


noblest  characters  on  earth,  was  desirous 
only  of  saving  the  reputation  and  securing 
the  happiness  of  Louise.  With  a  pure  and 
sublime  devotion  to  the  weal  of  a  scorn- 
ful mistress,  unknown  before  his  time,  he 
gently,  and  by  letter,  insinuated  to  her  the 
danger  of  her  position,  which  was  on  the 
crumbling  verge  of  an  awful  precipice. 
He  professed  to  have  the  most  unbounded 
confidence  in  her  purity,  but  he  forcibly 
reminded  her  of  the  danger  of  braving 
public  opinion,  and  entreated  her  to  be- 
ware of  an  intimacy  with  me,  whom  he 
accused  of  improper  motives.  I  was  pres- 
ent when  she  read  the  letter,  and,  heavens  ! 
who  can  describe  her  looks  and  manner  ?■ 
Were  I  to  live  a  thousand  years  I  should 
never  forget  the  grandeur  of  her  actions, 
the  unearthly  fire  that  blazed  in  her  eyes ! 
What  an  actress  she  would  have  made ! 
How  queenly,  majestic,  and  awful  would 
she  have  seemed  in  tragedy !  She  at  last 
became  furious  ;  but  I,  although  a  stranger 
to  the  feelings  of  a  coward,  deemed  it  pru- 
dent not  to  break  with  her  bold  lover,  and 
prevailed  on  her  to  send  him  a  moderate 
answer.  She  could,  however,  no  longer 
endure  his  presence ;  and,  though  he  begged 
only  a  friendly  nook  in  her  heart,  she 
plainly  told  him  that,  though  she  knew  he 
was  her  friend,  she  could  never  like  him 
again.  She  even  endeavoured  to  insult 
him,  and  requested  him  never  more  to 
show  her  his  face.  Reader,  did  you  ever 
see  a  poet,  a  noble  son  of  Nature,  while 
his  heart  was  breaking  1  It  is  one  of  those 
sublime  and  impressive  tragedies  at  which 
angels  are  the  weeping  spectators,  and  no 
pen  can  describe  it,  no  scenic  representa- 
tion can  convey  the  faintest  idea  of  it. 
The  South- Carolinian  (for  he  was  from 
that  state,  or  province)  felt  his  generous 
heart  wither  within  him,  and  saw  the  glo- 
rious hopes  of  a  soul  brighter  than  the  sun 
which  lights  the  universe,  set  forever  !  In 
fact,  the  sun  of  his  happiness  had  gone 
down,  and  his  harp — the  first,  best,  and 
dearest  friend  of  his  early  and  guileless 
youth — poured  forth  a  few  sad  wails  of 
enchanting  melody,  and  then  became  si- 
lent forever.  Now,  thought  I,  is  the  time 
to  vindicate  my  honour  and  the  young 
harper  received,  among  his  other  thick- 
coming  misfortunes,  a  cartel  from  me. 
My  second,  or  friend,  was  a  glorious  vil- 
lain— an  old  subaltern  of  mine,  whose 
heart  was  harder  than  adamant,  and  who 
was  never  so  happy  as  when  carrying  out 
my  devilish  purposes.  As  I  expected,  the 
discarded  lover  of  Louise  desired  an  op- 
portunity of  seeing  his  friend,  and  also 
intimated  a  hope  that  the  necessity  of  a 

fight  might  be  avoided.     Old  smiled 

grimly,  and  answered  that  if  the  gentle- 
man had  no  stomach  for  the  fight  he 
must  write  and  sign  such  an  apology 
as  he  should  dictate.     The  young  Caro- 


110 


LAMANCE. 


linian  immediately  betook  himself  to  the 
only  military  friend  he  had  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood, and,  stating  the  whole  case, 
asked  advice.  Most  people  consider  you 
brave  in  proportion  to  the  length  of  your 
whiskers,  the  ferocity  of  your  looks,  and 
the  malignity  of  your  heart — and  thus 
my  rival's  friend  judged  him.  He  plainly 
showed,  by  his  hesitation  and  embarrass- 
ment, that  he  suspected  the  pale  poet  of 
cowardice ;  and  this  latter,  divining  how 
matters  stood,  exclaimed — 

"  I  know  your  thoughts ;  but  you  shall 
not  be  compromised.  I  must  have  a  friend, 
and  I  must  make  an  explanation  to  Ross  ; 
but,  if  you  will  go  with  me  to  the  field,  I 
will,  to  satisfy  you,  now  give  you  a  power 
of  attorney  to  blow  out  my  brains,  if  I  do 
any  thing  you  can  condemn  !" 

This  appeal  could  not  be  resisted ;  and 
so,  next  morning  we  had  a  meeting.  As 
we  took  our  stations,  pistols  in  hand,  my 
antagonist  said, 

.  "  Before  we  fight,  I  wish  permission  to 
make  an  explanation.  Mr.  Ross,  1  have 
suspected  that  you  had  and  have  base  de- 
signs on  an  innocent  and  unsuspecting 
lady ;  and,  thus  thinking,  I  discharged  my 
duty  by  warning  her  against  you.  As  I 
know  little  of  you  personally,  and  as  lov- 
ers are  proverbially  jealous  and  suspicious, 
I  may  have  been  mistaken.  If  you  will 
disavow  such  intentions  as  I  have  charged 
you  with,  and  give  me  proof  of  your  char- 
acter as  a  gentleman,  I  will  make  the  most 
ample  apologies  to  you,  and  before  all  the 
world." 

With  a  sneer,  I  answered ;  "  I  expected 
this.  If  your  heart,  sir,  is  cowardly,  say 
so  at  once,  and  I  will  dismiss  you.  God 
forbid  I  should  wish  to  frighten  you  to 
death !" 

u  Mistake  me  not,  sir,"  answered  he : 
"  my  explanation  was  to  discharge  my 
conscience  before  God,  our  master.  To 
you,  dog,  I  have  nothing  to  say,  and  you 
shall  die !" 

The  cool  sternness  of  his  manner  some- 
what disconcerted  me,  and  hence  I  missed 
him,  while  his  shot  wounded  me  sharply 
in  the  thigh.  I  was  not  much  hurt ;  but, 
choosing  to  get  out  of  the  fight,  I  fell  and 
pretended  that  I  could  not  stand.  The 
Carolinian,  with  his  friend,  approached  me, 
saying, 

"  Gentlemen,  I  am  the  challenged  party, 
and  I  have  a  right  to  continue  the  fight  till 
the  challenge  is  withdrawn.  There  must 
be  another  shot ;  and,  as  I  seek  no  advan- 
tage, tie  my  legs  together,  and  lay  us  side 
by  side,  or  put  the  muzzles  of  our  pistols  to 
each  other's  breasts.    The  dog  must  die  !" 

Was  he  not  game  ?  My  wound,  some- 
how, became  suddenly  very  painful,  and 
my  challenge,  from  necessity,  was  with- 
drawn. The  next  day  Louise  received 
the  following  : 


TO  LOUISE. 


WE    MET   AS   STRANGERS. 


We  met  as  strangers ;  but  thy  star-lit  face  |  ,< 

Long,  long  ago,  and  oftentime,  I'd  seen ; 
In  its  soul-speaking  features  I  could  trace 

The  image  sweet  of  boyhood's  early  dream,   • 
My  waking  fancy  oft  had  pictured  thee, 

And  loved  thee,  too,  as  one  of  fairy  birth,  .- 1 

Not  dreaming  that  familiar  one  could  be  ( 

A  native  mortal  child  of  this  sad  earth, 
#*'•#.''    '■& 

We  met  as  strangers  !     Lady,  when  we  'part.     ; 

Not  as  a  stranger  from  me  wilt  thou  go, 
With  thee  must  travel  still  my  absent  heart,     .   j 

And  mine,  alas  !  will  be  a  double  wo  ! 
■*-*#'* 

We  parted  soon  ;  but  oh,  if  ever  o'er 

Thy  mem'ry's  joyous  stream  one  thought  of  me 
Should  glide,  think  of  me  as  one  no  more, 

Whose  viewless  spirit  still  is  following  thee ! 
And  if  some  time,  perchance,  in  after  years, 

Thy  eye,  in  pensive  mood,  should  meet  my  name, 
More  dear  will  be  the  tribute  of  thy  tears 

To  me,  than  all  the  laureled  meed  of  fame  ! 

*  *  *  :    # 

Thy  tears  !  alas,  was  ever  woman  known     i 

To  shed  a  kindly  tear  or  heave  a  sigh 
For  those  whose  cruel  lot  stern  fate  has  thrown  ' 

Where  perils  and  where  hardships  thickest  lie? 
We  met  as  strangers  !    As  a  stranger  soon 

You  coldly  bade  me  from  your  thoughts  depart, 
Refusing,  e'en  when  begged,  the  common  boon    j 

Of  friendly  habitation  in  your  heart ; 
Not  carirlg,  as  in  cold  and  proud  disdain- 

You  sent  me  forth  and  doubly  barred  the  door,  : 
What  keen  and  ever-during,  fiery  pain     ,     '  • 

You  planted  deep  within  my  bosom's  core  ! 
We  met  as  strangers  ;  and  a  stranger  I 

Must  still  forever  be  to  one  like  thee. 
For  naught  that's  noble  can  thy  haughty  eye  i 

Discern  in  unpretending  friends  like  me  ; 
Nor  can  you  see  how  we  can  ever  feel, 

Or  sigh,  or  writhe,  or  with  keen  anguish  a 
When  through  our  souls,  like  barbed  and  pointed 
steel, 

Of  wanton  scorn,  you  drove  the  poisoned  dart, 

*  *  +  '.*;.,. 

We  met  as  strangers  !     Thus  the  high  and  low 

In  worldly  fortune  here  must  ever  meet. 
Between  them  must  a  trackless  ocean  flow  . 

O'er  which  their  kindred  hearts  can  rarely 
The  wise,  adventurous  men  do  often  sail 

From  coast  to  coast,  and  mingle  frank  and,  free; 
But  women,  land-bound,  timid,  proud,  and  frail, 

Still  clings  to  her  own  narrow  coterie, 
And  thinks  that  all  beyond  this  petty  state  '  ' 

Are  outside  savages,  a  barb'rous  race,' 
'Gainst  whom  to  nourish  constant  spite  and  hate 

Are  exemplary  acts  of  Christian  grace  ! 
*  *  *  #. 

We  met  as  strangers  ;  and  henceforth  shall  all 

The  glare-caught  race  (whom  not  a  'few  have 
thought  ■.    n 

As  soulless  as  they're  heartless  since  the,  fajl),   , ,  r 

With  all  their  whims,  forever  be  forgot.  ,  ,  ,  ■  .     - 
They  not  unwisely  think  who  deem  them' toys, 

The  pretty  playthings  of  an  idle  hour  ;   : 
But  strangers  to  those  higher,  ]astingjays>-iJ>>' 

That  should  engage  for  long,  man's  nobjerj^wei" ; 
Unworthy  of  that  love,  so  pure,  sublime,, , ,  -    ,     ■ 

Celestial  product  of  diviner  moulds,     j 
That  fervid  glow  immortal,  which  no  time 

Can  ever  dim  or  quench  in  manly  souls  :    ' 
That  passion  which  in  genius  can  inspire  ; 

These  deathless  thoughts,  those  deeds, ,of , high, 
renown,  ,,, 

Which,  writ  in  characters  of  living  fire, 

Through  coming  ages  will  undimm'dgb'down; 
Reflecting  o'er  its  consecrated  name        , ,   [■ •,  t 

A  glorious  halo,  while1  those  petty  souk, 


ALAMANCE. 


Ill 


Who  thought  its  love  and  adoration  shame, 
Have  long  been  sleeping  in  forgotten  dust ! 

And  yet,  when  on  thy  sylphlike  form  I  gaze, 
And  see  how  far  above  thy  sex  thou  art, 

I  mourn  to  think  an  angel's  gracious  face 

Should  grace  proud  woman's  selfish,  sordid  heart." 

This  offering,  like  all  the  others  from 
1  the  same  votary,  fell  on  an  altar  of  stone, 
and  the  author  disappeared — perhaps  to 
pine  in  some  sequestered  vale,  and  drop 
into  an  early  grave — perhaps  to  become  a 
desolate  wanderer  over  the  earth — or,  per- 
haps, to  don  the  soldier's  harness  and  be- 
come the  iron  chief  of  some  ruthless  band. 
To  tell  the  truth,  I  now  had  my  wits  too 
much  employed  to  think  of  the  hapless 
disciple  of  the  tuneful  nine.  One  by  one 
the  lovers  of  Louise  dropped  off,  her  fe- 
male acquaintances  began  to  shun  her ;  and, 
finally,  otd  Duncan  Stuart  himself  became 
suspicious.  Fearing  every  hour  that  the 
old  lion  would  set  one  of  his  cubs  upon 
me,  or  demand  an  explanation  of  my  in- 
tentions towards  Louise,  that  good  girl  cut 
the  Gordian  knot  of  my  difficulties  by 
taking  it  into  her  head  to  disappear.  It  is 
needless  to  speak  of  the  passionate  grief 
of  the  brave  sons  for  their  adopted  sister, 
or  of  the  anguish  that  smote  the  old  man's 
heart ;  still  more  useless  to  speak  of  my 
own  desolate  feelings.  I  mingled  my  tears 
with  those  of  the  Stuarts,  and  my  only 
source  of  consolation  was  found  in  visits 
to  my  relatives,  and  frequent  pilgrimages 
to  Glen-Muise,  my  unknown  cottage  on 
the  Clarendon.  With  Louise  all  Stuart's 
good  fortune  seemed  to  leave  him  ;  and  as 
I  was  also  very  sad.  and  somewhat  short 
of  funds,  I  had  recourse  to  cards  for  amuse- 
ment, and  protection  from  my  melancholy 
humours.  The  young  men  became  fond 
of  the  sport ;  they  bet  high,  and  so  did  I. 
These  young  gentlemen  were  patterns  of 
honesty*  and  generosity ;  -they  had  the 
princely  habit  of  spending  freely,  and  I 
the  noble  trait  of  claiming  my  winnings. 
Hence  money,  plate,  jewels,  and  negroes 
vanished  ;  and,  as  I  disliked  to  see  a  good 
man  in  distress,  I  also  took  my  leave. 
During  all  this  time  the  search  for  Louise 
was  continued ;  and  while  one  of  the  young 
bloodhounds  was  impertinently  nosing  out 
my  sweet  cottage,  to  which  I  had  fled  from 
the  bustle  of  the  world  and  the  iniquity  of 
men,  he  was  suspected  of  being  a  Tory 
spy,  and  arrested.  I,  a  notorious  Royalist, 
wrote  to  the  Rebels  who  held  young  Stu- 
art in  custody,  threatening,  in  his  behalf, 
the  vengeance  of  the  crown,  and  declaring 
that  he  was  my  most  particular  friend.  Of 
course  my  letter  only  increased  the  indig- 
nation for  Stuart;  and  as  he  was  a  gentle- 
man, he  escaped  only  by  the  loss  of  all  his 
little  estate. 

When  the  war  between  England  and 
her  colonies  was  on  the  eve  of  breaking 
out,  I  found  it  expedient  to  leave  my  neigh- 
bourhood.    Feigning  employment   in  the 


royal  service,  I  started  westward ;  and, 
falling  in  with  Nathan  Glutson  at  Ala- 
mance, that  jewel  of  a  man  treated  me  so 
.kindly  and  deferentially,  that  I  concluded 
to  remain  with  him.  My  letter,  which  I 
handed  him  at  your  father's  Christmas  par- 
ty, was  a  mere  sham,  for  I  had  then  been 
at  Glutson's  several  days.  I  wished  to 
see  this  meeting  of  the  Alamancers,  and  I 
took  the  mode  above  mentioned  of  getting 
a  glimpse  of  your  people,  and  of  seeing 
for  myself  what  they  were  about.  Now 
this  Glutson  seemed  a  most  zealous  Roy- 
alist, and  so  desirous  was  he  of  the  success 
of  my  mission  that  he  gave  me  a  written 
description  of  the  character,  manners, 
standing,  and  feelings  of  all  his  neighbours. 
He  was  particularly  desirous  that  I  should 
see  old  Mayfield ;  and  even  went  so  far 
as  to  send  with  me  his  hopeful  son,  Will- 
iam, whom  he  caused  to  apologize  to  May- 
field  and  his  family  for  an  unpleasant  oc- 
currence that  had  taken  place  a  few  days 
before.  Thus  was  I  introduced  to  Edith, 
and  at  once  my  wicked  heart  was  fired 
with  the  most  fiendish  passions.  She  was 
artless,  tender,  and  full  of  sentiment ;  her 
eyes  were  dark,  her  complexion  brunette, 
and  her  lips  large  and  luscious  ;  and  thus  I 
thought  she  would  be  an  easy  conquest. 
Besides,  I  was  a  stranger,  a  mysterious 
character,  a  foreigner,  an  officer,  and  an 
enemy  to  her  country  and  her  people,  and 
these,  surely,  I  thought,  make  an  easy 
road  to  any  lady's  heart.  To  my  surprise, 
I  found  that  the  little  vixen  disliked  me 
first,  and  slightly  because  I  was  a  foreign- 
er and  rather  outre  in  my  appearance.  -Her 
dislike  became  disgust,  as  she  quickly  read 
my  character ;  and,  oh  ]  wonder  of  won- 
ders !  she  even  detested  me  when  she 
learned  that  I  wished  to  cut  the  throats 
of  all  her  friends,  sweetheart  and  father 
included !  Gracious  heavens  !  I  began  to 
think  I  was  dreaming,  or  had  been  trans- 
planted to  another  world.  Over  and  over 
she  rejected  me,  until  at  last  I  began  to 
think  there  was  one  virtuous,  rational,  and 
sensible  woman  in  the  world.  I  had  long 
looked  in  vain  for  such  a  one ;  and,  not 
finding  her,  became  confirmed  in  villainy, 
and  determined  never  to  marry.  Edith, 
however,  shook  this  determination,  and 
(you  may  believe  me  or  not)  I  became  sin- 
cerely desirous  of  wedding  her.  I  believed 
that  I  had  found  the  rarest  and  most  pre- 
cious gem  on  earth,  and  every  day  this 
opinion  grew  upon  me  ;  every  day  my  love 
for  Edith  increased.  Ay,  love ;  for  I  had 
now  found  a  chaste  woman,  with  a  heart, 
a  soul,  and  a  mind,  and  I  was  obliged  to 
love  her.  The  character  of  this  little  Ala-, 
mancer  astounded  me ;  her  beauty  charmed 
me ;  and  so,  with  honest  purposes,  and  in 
my  most  winning  manner,  I  laboured  hard 
to  obtain  her  consent  to  our  union.  She 
refused  me  with  less  and  less  gentleness, 


"112 


ALAMANCE. 


until  at  last  her  hatred  was  so  obvious  that 
ten  thousand  devils  were  roused  up  within 
me.  I  resolved  to  ruin  her;  to  seduce 
her,  to  win  her  affections,  and  then  turn 
her  off  to  perish.  My  plan  was,  to  steal 
her  from  her  father,  carry  her  to  an  old 
aunt  of  mine,  and  there  endeavour  to  get 
her  consent  to  our  marriage.  If  she  re- 
fused I  would  force  her ;  and,  without  the 
knowledge  of  any  one,  employ  a  scoundrel 
to  personate  a  clergyman  and  unite  us. 
After  the  honeymoon  she  should  be  carried 
to  Glen-Muise-;  and  while  she  was  admir- 
ing this  elegant  retreat,  its  real  mistress, 
the  concealed  muse,  should  come  out,  em- 
brace me,  and  turn  Edith  out  of  doors,  I 
approving,  and  showing  the  girl  how  she 
had  been  deceived   and   ruined.      These 

were  my  plans  and  are  still. 

*  #  #  # 

Heaven  and  earth  !  the  bird  has  escaped 
the  fowler  !  Edith  is  gone  !  The  above 
pages,  Mr.  Warden,  were  written  weeks 
ago,  audi  intended,  at  my  leisure,  to  finish 
my  own  history,  and  also  that  of  Louise, 
for  the  amuseinent  and  instruction  of  pos- 
terity. I  thought  that  if  Edith  were  vir- 
tuous, and  a  woman,  such  as  woman  ought 
to  be,  I  had  a  perfect  right  to  try  to  make 
her  my  wife  ;  that  if  she  were  not  such  as 
you  and  I  supposed  her,  I  would  be  ren- 
dering you  a  service  by  victimizing  her. 
I  once  thought  no  woman  worthy  of  you 
or  me ;  but  I  now  know  that  Edith  is,  and 
a  hell  is  raging  within  me  because  I  know 
you  are  more  worthy  of  her  than  I,  and, 
therefore,  may  be  more  likely  to  get  her. 
I  must  pursue,  and  if  I  take  her  we  will 
die  together,  and  if  there  is  a  heaven  she 
will  find  it.  /cannot  be  worsted,  even  in 
a  lake  of  everlasting  fire.  The  good  spirit 
has  triumphed  in  saving  Edith — my  occu- 
pation's gone,  and  I  must  try  another 
world,  if  there  be  one  ;  and  if  there  is  not, 
I  will  at  least  be  out  of  this  cursed  one, 
where  the  star  of  my  friend,  the  devil,  is 
on  the  wane !" 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

From  the  time  that  Henry  Warden  left 
her,  he  was  never  absent  a  moment  from 
the  thoughts  of  Lucy  Neal.  His  looks, 
when  she  first  saw  him,  his  dress,  and  all 
.  1  iiat  he  ever  said  or  did  in  her  presence, 
became  fixed  indelibly  in  her  memory. 
The  books  which  they  had  read  were 
thenceforward  invested  with  a  new  and 
peculiar  interest,  and  the  scenes  they  had 
visited  together  excited  in  her  feelings 
akin  to  those  that  swell  within  the  classic 
scholar's  breast  when  wandering  by  the 
site  of  ancient  Delphi,  or  that  burn  within 
the  pious  pilgrim's  heart  as  he  strays  over 
the  sacred  hills  of  Judaea.     Raised  up  in 


seclusion,  and  having  never,  until  she  met 
with  Warden,  seen  a  human  being  beyond 
the  circle  of  her  own  family,  who  excited 
in  her  a  tender  emotion,  all  the  hoarded 
affections  of  her  young  heart,  fresh,  pure, 
and  fervent,  were  lavished  on  him.  It 
was  not  mere  love  in  its  ordinary  sense, 
implying  only  passion  or  kind  esteem, 
which  he  had  caused  within  her ;  it  was 
an  intense  devotion,  a  concentration  of  all 
the  soft  and  tender  sentiments  of  which 
our  nature,  in  its  purest  state,  is  capable. 
She  found  in  him  an  only  brother ;  he  was 
the  first  friend  she  had  ever  known  to  es- 
teem ;  her  first  companion,  entertaining 
and  instructive,  with  sympathies  in  unison 
with  her  own  ;  the  first  hero,  wit,  scholar, 
and  man  of  intellect  she  had  seen  to  ad- 
mire ;  the  first  young,  amiable,  and  polished 
gentleman  of  refined  sensibilities  who  had 
ever  kindled  a  fond  glow  in  her  ardent  and  ' 
stainless  breast.  A  new  era  had  dawned 
on  her  hitherto  quiet  and  passionless  ex- 
istence ■;  she  seemed  to  have  awakened  in 
a  new  world,  where  the  mountains  and 
the  flowers,  the  stars  and  the  moon  had 
vanished,  and  where  all  beautiful  things 
were  but  the  reflection  of  an  absent  face — 
all  sweet  sounds  were  the  soft  whispers 
of  his  voice.  Her  only  happiness  was  to 
think  of  him — her  daily  occupation  to  ram- 
ble over  the  places  where  he  had  been, 
visit  every  day  the  rustic  bower  and  the 
tree  on  which  her  name  was  carved,  read 
constantly  the  verses  he  had  written  for 
her,  and  to  take  hourly  from  her  bosom 
the  handkerchief  he  had  left  her.  She 
never  reasoned  on  the  nature  of  her  pas- 
sion, nor  once  reflected  on  what  might  he 
its  ultimate  consequences.  She  set  no 
particular  time  for  her  marriage,  she  laid 
no  plans  for  her  future  life  ;  she  knew  she 
could  not  live  without  Henry  Warden,  and 
she  expected  him  to  return,  and  this  was 
the  extent,  of  her  reasoning  on  the  subject. 
The  present  was  a  blank  to  her,  and  she 
lived  only  in  that  hour  when  she  would 
see  him  again ;  and  thus,  day  by  day,  and 
hour  by  hour,  he  was  becoming  dearer  and 
dearer  to  her,  till  her  soul  was,  as  it  were, 
transfused  into  his  spirit,  and  her  existence 
became  a  part  of  his.  Weeks,  long,  dull, 
and  tiresome  weeks,  had  passed  away,  and 
Lucy  began  to  look  for  his  return.  Meas- 
uring his  impatience  and  judging  his  de- 
sires by  her  own,  she  had  concluded  that 
he  would  not  be  absent  longer  than  he 
was  compelled  to  be  by  the  calls  of  duty. 
She  allowed  so  many  days  for  his  passage 
to  Alamance,  a  very  few  for  his  stay-there, 
and  a  certain  number  for  his  return.  When 
the  computation  was  out,  and  another  day 
had  passed  away,  Lucy  retired  to  rest  with 
a  light  heart,  thinking  the  morrow  would 
bring  her  friend.  The  morrow  came  and 
went,  and  now  that  he  had  had  two  extra 
days  to  allow  for  contingencies,  she  was 


ALAMANCE. 


113 


sure  she  would  see  him  before  another 
sunset.  The  sun  did  rise  and  set  again, 
and  her  heart  began  to  be  shaded  with  its 
first  disappointment.  At  night  she  was 
sitting  at  a  window  by  the  parlour  fire, 
gazing  at  the  cold,  full,  bright  winter  moon, 
as  she  moved  with  slow  and  lonely  grand- 
eur over  the  blue  fields  of  ether,  palling,  in 
her  royal  progress,  all  lesser  luminaries, 
which  were  lost  in  the  unmatched  splen- 
dours of  their  queen.  She  observed,  far 
up  in  the  heavens,  a  small,  solitary,  and 
exceedingly  lustrous  star,  that  twinkled 
with  a  soft  and  te/nder  light,  the  brightest 
and  the  sweetest  gem  on  the  constellated 
robe  of  night.  With  girlish  simplicity  she 
called  it  her  star,  and  watched  it  till  it  fled 
and  vanished  at  the  approach  of  the  gor- 
geous sovereign' of  the  night.  Lucy  sigh- 
ed as  its  modest  face  was  hid,  and  began 
to  conjure  up  a  train  of  sad  reflections, 
when  voices  at  the  gate  filled  her  with 
tumultuous  emotions.  Darting  instantly 
to  her  toilet,  she  there,  with  unspeakable 
pleasure,  heard  ,  her  father  welcoming 
M'Bride  to  the  shelter  of  his  roof  and  the 
hospitality  of  his  board  ;  and  as  her  door 
was  partly  ajar,  she  watched  with  intense 
interest  as  the  guests  came  in.  When  all 
were  in  she  listened  for  the  mention  of 
Warden's  name,  till  she  found  he  was  hot 
of  the  company.  She  came  out  at  length, 
and,  after  an  introduction  to  those  whom 
she  had  not  before  seen,  her  heart  almost 
bounded  out  of  her  breast  when  she  heard 
her  father  enquire  for  Henry  Warden. 
M'Bride  first  told  his  story  in  regard  to 
Edith,  giving  a  short  sketch  of  her  adven- 
tures, and  then  Ben  Rust  briefly  related 
the  situation  of  Henry  Warden  and  of  his 
family.  At  the  conclusion  of  Ben's  nar- 
rative, Lucy  felt  that  Henry  was  a  thousand 
times  dearer  to  her  than  he  had  ever  been, 
and  her  heart  swelled-  with  pride  at  the 
consciousness  of  its  love  for  one  in  dis- 
tress, and  one,  perhaps,  deserted  by  all 
others.  She  was  even  made  happy  by 
his  wretchedness ;  for,  "  Oh !"  thought  she, 
"  how  tenderly  will  I  wait  upon  him,  how 
passionately  will  I  cling  to  him,  and  how 
astonished  and  delighted  he  will  be  at  my 
devotion."  Forthwith  she  began  to  build 
castles  in  the  air,  imagining  all  sorts  of 
troubles  for  her  friend,  and  placing  him  in 
the  most  perilous  straits,  where  .all  the 
world  was  against  him,  and  where,  with 
ineffable  love,  she  would  fold  him  to  her 
spotless  breast  and  bear  him  beyond  his 
dangers  to  some  Elysian  home  where  she 
would  spend  her  blissful  life  in  making 
him  forget  his  early  trials  ! 

Edith  did  not  fail  to  scan,  it  may  be  said, 
with  a  critic's  eye,  the  features  and  form 
of  Lucy  Neal,  of  whom  she  had  heard  so 
much.  M'Bride,  partly  from  a  desire  to 
make  her  feel  for  her  former  neglect  of 
Warden,  partly  to  try  her  heart;  and,  it 
H 


may  have  been,  affected  to  some  extent 
by  real  admiration,  had  told  her  much 
about  Lucy — had  drawn  her  portrait  with 
a  master's  hand,  and  had  not  failed  to 
speak  in  exaggerated  terms  of  the  impres- 
sion she  immediately  made  on  Warden. 
When,  therefore,  Edith  heard  these  things, 
and  reflected  on  what  might  have  been 
Warden's  feelings  towards  herself  when 
he  left  Alamance,  and  on  the  effect  of  his 
long  absence  from  her ;  and  when  she  re- 
membered, also,  that  when  he  first  met 
with  Lucy  he  was  wounded  and  dejected, 
and  that  in  this  condition  he  was  left  with 
her  for  his  only  companion,  she  began  to 
feel  a  pang,  compared  with  which  her 
other  sorrows  were  light.  She  was,  as 
may  Well  be  supposed,  anxious  to  see  this 
mountain  beauty,  and  when  she  did  see 
her,  her  own  ill-boding  fancy  multiplied 
and  heightened  her  charms.  Indeed,  each 
of  the  ladies  thought  the  other  the  hand- 
somest she  had  ever  seen ;  and,  although 
they  were  entire  contrasts,  each  was  such 
a  model  of  her  kind  that  the  other  wished 
herself  like  her  rival.  The  lily  was  still 
fresh  and  wearing  its  richest  bloom  in  the 
cheeks  of  Lucy ;  her  short,  light  tresses, 
still  hung  in  girlish  confusion  about  her 
face  and  neck,  and  her  soft,  bright-blue 
eyes  still  beamed  with  an  expression  earn- 
est and  happy.  The  rose  had  faded  in 
Edith's  face,  whose  paleness  was  height- 
ened by  the  raven  hue  of  her  luxuriant 
hair,  and  lighted  with  a  touching  beauty  by 
her  dark  eyes  fringed  with  long  silken 
lashes,  and  whose v  tender,  melancholy 
sparkle  seemed  half"  extinguished  by  an 
ever- rising  tear.  In  the  manners  of  the 
one  the  light-hearted  ease,  the  innocent 
gayety,  and  half- frolic  humour,  the  quick 
elastic  step,  and  the  merrily  ringing  laugh 
of  the  joyous  and  careless  girl  were  still 
remaining ;  while  those  of  the  other  dis- 
played the  graceful  dignity,  the  sober  pro- 
priety, the  repose  and  sad  serenity  of  one 
whom  sorrow  had  made  a  woman  before 
her  time.  Envy,  hatred,  and  jealousy  were 
passions  that  found  no  place  in  the  heart  of 
Edith ;  yet  she  was  mortal,  and  subject  to 
mortal  infirmities.  She  did  not  actually 
dislike  Lucy,  but  she  was  averse  to  the 
formation  of  an  intimacy  with  her ;  while 
the  latter,  suddenly  delighted  with  her  new- 
acquaintance,  was  disposed  at  once  to  be- 
come communicative  and  even  confiden- 
tial. Attributing  her  reserve  to  her  sor- 
rows, Lucy  taxed  her  powers  to  entertain 
her,  and  chattered  away  nearly  the  whole 
of  the  night  to  the  silent  and  abstracted 
companion  who  lay  by  her  side.  The 
earliest  beams  of  the  morning  sun  found 
Lucy  again  awake,  and,  leaning  over  her 
now  sleeping  friend,  her  heart  was  touched 
as  she  saw  the  marks  of  recent  tears  on 
Edith's  cheeks.  She  was  still  watching 
over  her  when  the  latter  awoke,  and,  ten- 


114 


ALAMANCE. 


derly  kissing  and  embracing  her,  and  soon 
adjusting  her  own  simple  toilet,  assisted 
her  companion  to  dress,  talking  kindly  and 
sweetly  to  her  all  the  while,  and  endeav- 
ouring to  revive  her  drooping  spirits  by 
lively  descriptions  of  the  scenes  and  nov- 
elties she  would  see  in  the  mountains. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

"  And  Ruth  said,  Entreat  me  not  to  leave  thee  nor 
to  return  from  following  after  thee  :  for  whither  thou 
goest  I  will  go,  and  where  thou  lodgest  I  will  lodge  : 
thy  people  shall  be  my  people,  and  thy  God  my  God. 
Where  thou  diest  I  will  die,  and  there  will  I  be  bu- 
ried. The  Lord  do  so  to  me,  and  more  also  if  aught 
but  death  part  me  and  thee."  Ruth. 

"  Leaving  the  cause  for  the  discussion  and 
determination  of  psychologists,  I  can  only 
relate  the  fact  that  Lucy  Neai  became 
wonderfully  fond  of  Edith  Mayfield.  Per- 
haps it  was  because  the  sorrows  of  the  good 
and  beautiful  endear  them  to  the  generous 
heart;  perhaps  it  was  because  Edith  was 
from  Alamance,  or  was  the  first  intelli- 
gent and  accomplished  lady  Lucy  had  ever 
seen ;  perhaps  the  mystery  that  hung  about 
her,  her  meekness,  the  sweetness  of  her 
temper,  her  failing  health,  and  the  celes- 
tial light  that  began  to  beam  from  her  face 
and  seemed  to  mark  her  as  not  long  for 
earth,  won  upon  Lucy's  heart.  Certain  it 
is,  Lucy  began  to  love  Edith  as  a  sister, 
anticipated  all  her  wants  with  the  most 
tender  solicitude,  and  exerted  herself  to 
the  utmost  to  make  her  happy.  She  almost 
entirely  neglected  the  rest  of  us,  and,  with 
Edith,  went  rambling  about  over  the  hills 
and  mountains  ;  watched  over  her  when  she 
slept,  and  would  have  forced  upon  her  al- 
most every  thing  she  had  that  was  rare 
and  valuable.  As  these  two  were,  there- 
fore, constantly  together,  my  friend  Cap- 
tain Demijohn,  gloomy,  taciturn,  and  ab- 
stracted, and,  as  Benjamin  Rust  and  Nannie 
Scott  began  to  find  great  entertainment  in 
each  other,  I  was  left  entirely  to  the  so- 
ciety of  our  host,  Abraham  Neal.  We 
had  much  discourse  together  upon  men 
and  things,  and  my  time  was  pleasantly 
passed." 

Thus  does  the  master  begin  the  narrative 
of  certain  incidents  which  we  will  now  pro- 
ceed, in  a  briefer  manner,  to  relate  to  the 
reader.  Lucy  spoke  often  to  Edith  about 
Henry  Warden,  frequently  quoted  his  re- 
marks on  various  subjects,  and  was  every 
day  pointing  out  the  scenes  which  he  had 
admired.  Strange  to  say,  however,  the 
mountains  and  all  they  contained  became 
daily  more  and  more  distasteful  to  Edith, 
and  she  passionately  longed  to  return  to  Ala- 
mance. She  soon  guessed  at  the  state  of 
Lucy's  feelings ;  and,  taught  by  her  mis- 
fortunes to  condemn  herself  in  all  things, 
she  was  not  long  in  concluding  that  Lucy 
was  not  to  blame.     She  even  went  so  far 


as  to  forgive  Warden,  and  to  look  upon  his 
conduct  as  perfectly  justifiable.  She  put 
the  case  to  herself;  she  imagined,  or  tried 
to  imagine,  what  would  have  been  her 
feelings  had  she  been  treated  as  Warden 
was ;  and.  then  she  looked  at  Lucy  Neal, 
her  beauty,  her  innocence,  her  simplicity, 
intelligence,  and,  above  all,  her  candour, 
confidence,  and  goodness,  and  she  con- 
cluded that,  under  all  the  circumstances,  it 
would  have  been  folly  in  Warden  to  have 
slighted  so  fair  a  prospect  of  happiness  for  ' 
one  so  remote.  True,  her  conduct  had  been 
prescribed  by  her  father,  but  then  Warden 
did  not  know  it,  and  must  have  thought 
her  inconsistent,  fickle,  and  cruel.  These 
reflections  at  first  made  her  extremely 
wretched;  but  her  great  soul,  at  length, 
broke  out  resplendent  from  obscuring 
clouds.  She  believed  that  her  destiny  was 
fixed — that  all  her  once-cherished  hopes 
were  blighted,  and  she  bowed  with  uncom- 
plaining submission  to  the  behests  of  Prov- 
idence. The  scenes  of  the  future  were 
now  changed,  and  a  new  train  of  thoughts 
occupied  her  mind.  -  Henceforth  she  was 
to  feel  little  interest  in  her  acquaintances, 
and  her  heart  was  to  be  fixed  on  high  and 
noble  aims.  She  would  quit  society,  at 
least  the  society  of  the  young  and  gay — 
thus  she  reasoned — she  would  succour  the 
patriots,  hunt  out  the  needy  and  distressed, 
and  spend  her  days  and  nights  in  works 
of  charity,  till  her  summons  came  to  quit 
this  scene,  where  she  was  not  destined  to 
be  happy,  for  the  shores  of  a  brighter 
world.  Thus  was  her  plan  of  life  marked 
out,' and,  in  its  sublime  devotion  to  the  weal 
of  others,  assistance  was  to  be  rendered 
in  bringing  about  a  match  between  Henry 
Warden  and  Lucy  Neal.  Yet  Edith  wished 
to  be  with  her  mother  before  she  put  her 
heart  to  this  last  and  severe  test,  for  she 
had  a  mournful  foreboding  that  it  would 
hasten  her  flight  from  earth.  Her  strength, 
was  daily  failing,  and,  resolving  at  once  to 
brave  the  dangers  on  the  road  to  Ala- 
mance, she  one  evening  told  M'Bride  that 
she  would  start  next  morning.  The  master 
found  it  useless  to  resist  her  inclinations, 
and  so,  with  internal  grumblings  at  the 
strange  caprices  of  the  sex,  and  his  own 
singular  fate,  he  set  himself  to  prepare. 
Lucy  was  immediately  closeted  with  her 
parents,  and,  without  much  difficulty,  ob- 
tained their  permission  to  visit  Alamance. 
Edith's  situation,  perhaps,  was  the  main 
cause  of  this  permission,  for  the  times 
wrere  dangerous  and  the  old  people  loved 
their  only  child.  This  latter  bounded  im- 
mediately into  Edith's  chamber,  and,  throw- 
ing her  arms  about  her,  and  kissing  her 
over  and  over  again,  exclaimed,  "  And  so 
we- shall  not  part  after  all!" 

"How  do  you  mean?"  asked  Edith,  "I 
certainly  shall  start  to-morrow." 

"And  so  shall  I,"  said  Lucy,  ''for  fa- 


ALAMANCE. 


115 


ther  and  mother  have  already  given  me 
leave." 

Edith  was  much  embarrassed  at  the 
rashness  of  her  friend,  and  scarcely  knew 
what  to  say.  At  length  she  asked,  "Are 
you  not  afraid,  Lucy,  to  be  on  the  road  at 
such  a  time  V 

"  And  aint  you  afraid  V  asked  Lucy  in 
return ;  "  I  am  sure  I  shall  be  as  safe  as 
you." 

"  Yes ;  but,  Lucy,  I  am  going  home, 
where  I  have  not  been  for  a  long  time.  I 
am  going  to  cheer  and  comfort  my  lonely 
mother,  and  for  this  I  ought  to  brave  every 
danger." 

"I  have  thought  over  every  thing,"  an- 
swered Lucy,  "  and  I  shall  not  be  afraid 
when  I  am  with  you." 

"Alas  !"  replied  Edith,  "  that  is  the  very 
reason  why  you  should,  for  I  am  fated  to 
bring 'misfortunes  on  myself  and  on  my 
friends." 

"  Please,  please  dotrt  talk  so  sadly," 
said  Lucy,  embracing  Edith;  "it  makes 
my  heart  ache  to  see  you  so  melancholy." 

"  I  cannot,  help  it,  Lucy ;  indeed  it  is  said 
that  the  shadows  of  approaching  death  are 
often  thrown  on  the  heart  before  it  ar- 
rives." 

"  Why  do  you  speak  of  death  ?"  asked 
Lucy,  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  "You  are 
too  beautiful,  too  young,  and  good  to  die." 

"  And  do  not  the  beautiful  and  the  good 
often  die  early  1" 

"I've  heard  it  said,"  answered  Lucy, 
"  that  whom  the  gods  love  die  young,  but 
it  seems  strange  and  unnatural.  But  let 
us  look  on  the  bright  side  of  things,  and 
not  distress  ourselves  with  our  own  fan- 
cies." 

"  Well,  Lucy,  suppose  you  were  on  the 
road,  how  would  you  like  to  ride  all  day 
in  the  cold  air,  without  warming  or  eat- 
ing"?" asked  Edith. 

"  I  shall  suffer  for  nothing  when  talking 
to  you,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Suppose  you  have  to  sleep  on  the 
ground?" 

"  I  shall  sleep  soundly  and  snugly  in 
)rour  bosom." 

"  Suppose  we  are  taken  prisoners  V 

"  Suppose  the  sky  falls,"  exclaimed  Lucy, 
laughing  — "  it's  needless  to  make  any 
further  suppositions,  for  I  am  a  spoiled 
child,  and  must  have  my  way." 

"  Lucy,"  said  Edith,  seriously,  "  you  do 
not  know  what  you  are  about.  There  are 
a  hundred  difficulties  in  the  way,  and  you 
must  not  go  with  us." 

Lucy  gazed  earnestly  at  her  companion 
for  a  minute,  and  then,  the  tears  falling 
fast,  replied5  "I  feared  it  would  be  so.  I 
love  you  like  a  sister,  but  I  see  you  do  not 
like  me,  and  wish  to  get  rid  of  me.  Thus 
it  is  with  me ;  I  have  no  brother  or  sister, 
no  friends  or  relations,  and  am  an  alien 
from  the  heart  of  every  human  being." 


These  words,  and  the  manner  in  which 
they  were  said,  excited  the  astonishment 
of  Edith  Mayfield,  and  she  put  her  arms 
about  Lucy,  saying,  "  My  dear  child,  you 
misunderstand  me.  I  do  not  despise  your 
affection ;  I  do  love  you  like  a  sister,  and 
what  I  have  said  was  on  your  own  ac- 
count, and  for  your  own  good." 

Lucy's  sorrows  vanished  in  an  instant, 
and  she  replied,  with  animation,  "  Oh,  how 
happy  I  am  now  that  you  say  you  love 
me !  Dear  lady,  please  say  so  again,  for 
they  were  the  sweetest  words  I  ever  heard. 
Do  you  really  love  me  in  fact  V 

"  1  do,  Lucy,  and  you  shall  be  my  sister." 

"  I  will,  I  will,  and  you  shall  prove  me ! 
I  will  go  with  you,  confide  in  you,  and 
nurse  you  like  a  sister,  and  live  with  you 
forever." 

"  What !  after  I  get  married  V 

Lucy  studied  a  moment,  and  answered", 
"  Why  not  1  Surely  you  will  not  cast  me 
off  when  you  marry." 

"  Certainly  I  would  not ;  but  suppose  you 
yourself  get  married  ?" 

"  I  could  not  love  my  husband  if  he  did 
not  like  you,"  replied  Lucy,  with  great  sim- 
plicity. 

"Perhaps,  after  all,  Lucy,"  said  Edith, 
"  you  only  want  to  go  to  Alamance  to  see 
Henry  Warden." 

A  crimson  flush  flew  over  Lucy's  face 
and  neck  ;  but,  quickly  recovering,  she  re- 
plied, with  an  earnest  look,  "  I  would  in- 
deed be  glad  to  see  Mr.  Warden,  and  hope 
we'll  meet  him  on  the  road  ;  but,  Edith, 
if  you  think  my  affection  for  yod  is  all 
feigned,  you  do  my  heart  gross  injustice. 
But  I  see  that  you  cannot  like  me.  Well,  I 
will  ever  love  you,  and  think  of  you,  and 
pray  for  you  ;  and,  though  you  despise  me 
now,  I  hope  we  will  meet,  in  heaven,  when 
I  know  you  will  love  me,  because  then 
you  will  see  my  heart." 

Edith's  heart  incited  at  these  words,  and, 
taking  the  hand  of  her  friend,  she  said, 
with  unusual  fervour,  "  Forgive  me,  my 
dear,  sweet  sister,  forgive  me.  You  are 
my  sister — I  this  day  adopt  you  as  such, 
and  will  forever  love  you  as  such.  You 
shall  go  with  me,  and  you  shall  see  if  I  do 
not  prove  to  be  your  best  friend." 

They  mingled  their  tears  together  now, 
and  were  more  free  and  confidential  than 
they  had  ever  been  before.  Edith  did 
really  love  Lucy;  and,  able  no  longer  to 
continue  her  reserve,  she  gave  full  play  to 
the  feelings  of  her  heart.  On  the  other 
side,  Lucy,  fairly  beside  herself  with  ex- 
travagant joy,  would  every  minute  stop  in 
the  midst  of  her  preparations  for  the  jour- 
ney, to  give  utterance  to  some  happy  fancy, 
or  sketch  some  bright  scene  in  her  antici- 
pated life  with  Edith.  It  was  agreed  be- 
tween the  two  friends  that  they  would 
spend  their  winters  at  Alamance  and  their 
summers  in  the  mountains ;  but  each  con- 


116 


ALAMANCE. 


cealed  a  part  of  the  pictured  future,  that 
which  Lucy  hid  being,  in  fact,  the  sun  that 
was  to  light  that  future,  while  Edith  con- 
cealed a  profound  sorrow  that  was  to  throw 
a  shade  over  all  her  enjoyments.  In  every 
sketch  which  the)'-  drew,  Lucy's  joy  was 
secretly  heightened  by  that  hidden  sun — 
Edith's  darkened  b3~  the  presence  of  a  sad 
remembrance.' 

Uncle  Corny  was  not  over-pleased  at 
the  sudden  interest  which  Edith  seemed 
to  take  in  Lucy ;  for  her  silence,  sadness, 
and  abstraction  had  afforded  some  conso- 
lation to  him.  He  now  found  that  he  was 
alone,  without  a  proper  companion  for  his 
journey;  so  situated  was  black  Ben,  and 
so  was  M'Bride,  who  set  out  upon  the 
road  with  his  mind  fully  made  up  to  turn 
Turk  on  the  first  opportunity.  His  remarks 
on  the  road,  if  not  out  of  place  in  a  work 
like  this,  would  afford  infinite  amusement 
to  the  reader.  It  should  be  added,  how- 
ever, that  before  the  party  started  for  Ala- 
mance, Abraham  Neal  took  the  master 
aside  and  thus  addressed  him :  "  Mr. 
M'Bride,  I  am  going  to  intrust  you  with 
an  important  charge,  and  though  I  have 
the  very  fullest  confidence  in  your  integ- 
rity and  honour,  I  feel  as  7acob  did  when 
committing  Benjamin  to  the  care  of  his 
brethren,  when  they  were  going  down  to 
Egypt"  for  corn.  His  son  was  not  dearer 
to  the  old  patriarch  than  is  my  daughter 
to  me  and  to  her  mother.  She  is  the  light 
of  our  house,  the  joy  of  our  hearts  ;  she  is 
young,  she  is  tender  and  innocent.  She  is 
going  with  Edith  Mayfield  to  Alamance, 
and  when  the  winter  is  over  at  your  hands 
will  I  look  to  find  her  bright  and  beautiful 
as  the  spring." 

"  Excepting  all  unavoidable  accidents," 
answered  M'Bride,  "  may  God  do  so  to  me, 
and  more  also,  if  I  return  her  not  as  she 
now  is.  I  may  bring  a  company  with  me — 
at  all  events  I  will  come  myself,  and,  may 
be,  shall  here  spend  the  summer." 

"  You  will  delight  me  if  you  do,"  said 
Neal ;  "  and  when  you  bring  Lucy  safely 
back,  I  will  tell  you  something  about  her 
that  may  interest  you." 

"  And  why  not  tell  me  now  ?"  asked  the 
master,  always  curious  about  such  things. 

"  It  would,  perhaps,  not  be  proper,"  re- 
plied the  other.  "  1  can  only  say  there  is  a 
singular  history  connected  with  her,  and 
this,  as  well  as  her  many  virtues,  renders 
her  peculiarly  dear  to  us,  and  makes  your 
charge  a  most  precious  one." 

"Was  there  ever  a  woman's  history  that 
was  not  a  tissue  of  strange  events  1  thought 
the  master,  but  he  held  his  peace. 

CHAPTER  XLV. 

EVENTS  HASTEN  TO  THEIR  CONCLUSION. 

When  Henry  Warden  left  Alamance  the 
last  time,  he  made  his  way  directly  to  the 


head-quarters  of  General  Greene,  and  there 
found  his  father  bearing  arms.  The  stir- 
ring events  which  followed,  crowding  in 
quick  succession  on  each  other,  dissipated 
his  melancholy  for  a  while,  and  fully  en- 
gaged his  thoughts.  In  fact,  he  was  now 
a  witness  of  and  a  participator  in  scenes, 
which,  were  they  here  recorded,  would 
throw  an  air  of  romance  over  the  perform- 
ance, and  cause  many  an  infidel  reader  to 
look  oil  the  whole  book  as  a  fiction.  On 
this  account,  and  because  also  the  under- 
taking would  be  too  extensive,  we  must 
pass  rapidly  over  incidents  which,  it  is 
hoped,  some  local  historian  will  yet  res- 
cue from  fast-coming  oblivion. 

A  crisis  in  the  war  had  now  arrived. 
Both  sides,  anxious  to  put  an  end  to  the 
protracted  struggle,  exasperated,  and,  per- 
haps, rendered  vindictive  by  the  hardships 
and  casualties'  incident  to  long-pending 
hostilities,  were  now  rallying  their  enfee- 
bled energies  for  a  great  and  final  effort. 
LOn  the  one  side  were  a  thirst  for  ven-. 
geance  and  for  glory,  and  the  stings  of 
mortified  pride  and  baffled  ambition ;  on 
the  other,  the  courage  of  despair,  the  for- 
titude and  unconquerable  determination 
inspired  by  the  memory  of  past  injuries, 
and  by  the  consciousness  of  being  mar- 
tyrs in  a  holy  cause.  Lord  Cornwallis, 
the  commander  of  the  British  forces  in  the 
south,  and  a  brave  and  accomplished  offi- 
cer, dreading  the  effects  of  time,  and  know- 
ing the  weakness  of  his  adversary,  was 
anxious  for  a  speedy  engagement ;  and,  to 
bring  it  about,  displayed  all  the  masterly 
qualities  of  a  great  commander.  He  had, 
however,  to  deal  with  an  antagonist  who 
was  equal  to  any  emergency,  and  whose 
energies  multiplied  as  dangers  thickened 
around  him.  Wary,  fearless,  and  untiring, 
patient  of  toil,  fertile  in  expedients,  skilled 
in  all  the  arts  of  war,  and  animated  with 
an  intense  love  for  his  country — with  a 
judgment  always  clear,  quick,  and  com- 
prehensive, and  a  manner  ever  cheerful, 
placid,  and  decisive,  General  Greene  was 
an  over-match  for  any  officer  in  the  En- 
glish service.  For  some  time  he  and  his 
great  antagonist  were  manoeuvring,  march- 
ing, and  counter-marching — one  seeking, 
the  other  avoiding  a  collision.  The  Brit- 
ish troops,  well  clothed  and  well  fed,  long 
inured  to  the  severities  of  the  soldier's 
life,  and  spurred  on  by  hopes  of  gain  and 
distinction,  were  not  so  severely  tried 
as  those  on  the  American  side.  It  was  in 
the  middle  of  an  unusually  cold  and  stormy 
winter  that  these  operations  were  carried 
on,  and  the  American  army  was  almost 
totally  deficient  in  camp  equipage  and  ne- 
cessary clothing.  They  often  lay  upon 
the  bare  ground,  with  the  broad  heavens 
for  their  covering,  or,  as  was  most  usually 
the  case,  the  clouds,  from  which  descend- 
ed, on  their  shivering  and  unsheltered  bod- 


ALAMANC  E. 


m 


ies,  rain,  snow,  and  sleet.  They  would, 
sometimes,  go  for  thirty-six  hours  without 
tasting  food  of  any  kind ;  many  of  them 
were  half  naked,  and  great  numbers  were 
barefooted,  and  could  be  tracked  by  the 
stains  of  blood  from  their  feet,  cut  and 
lacerated  by  the  hard  and  frozen  earth. 
Thus  hungry,  cold,  and  toil-worn,  the  ici- 
cles sometimes  hanging  from  their  beards 
and  clothes,  day  and  night,  these  men  were 
marching,  floundering  through  swamps, 
and  wading  swollen  creeks.  They  were 
in  this  condition,  too,  in  the  midst  of  their 
own  fruitful  country.  They  saw  others, 
opposed  to  that  country,  living  on  it  in 
ease  and  security ;  and  the  wan  and  hag- 
gard soldier  often  passed  in  view  of  his 
own  plantation,  desolated  by  the  ravages 
of  his  nearest  neighbour.  At  the  head  of 
this  host  was  a  chief  whose  mighty  spirit 
was  diffused  among  officers  and  men,  and 
all  orders  were  obeyed  with  a  cheerful 
and  ready  submission.  It  was  during  this 
trial  of  skill  between  the  commanders-in- 
chief,  that  patriot  leaders  of  lesser  note 
were  daily  performing  deeds  of  prowess, 
and  executing  well-laid  stratagems,  any 
one  of  which  would  afford  material  for  a 
handsome  novelette.  The  middle  counties 
were  the  scene  of  these  adventures,  and, 
could  they  but  speak,  every  hill,  and  vale, 
and  brook  would  tell  of  some  deed  of  hor- 
ror, or  of  some  gallant  achievement.  Ala- 
mance, especially,  became  noted  for  these 
adventures ;  and  towards  that  ancient 
community,  as  a  focus,  the  strifes  of  the 
country  seemed  converging.  Great  armies 
marched  and  hovered  about  it,  and  from 
every  quarter  armed  parties  traversed 
through  it.  All  the  elements  of  war  were 
now  in  motion.  It  raged  in  the  field  and 
by  the  fireside,  and  spent  its  fury  on  man, 
on  womah,  on  children,  and  on  brutes. 
Every  man  to  be  seen  by  day  or  at  night, 
in  the  woods  or  the  fields,  was  on  some 
hostile  and  plundering  errand.  Every  fe- 
male was  bewailing  some  loss,  or  flying 
from  some  danger.  Every  living  thing 
was  in  a  state  of  alarm,  and  the  air  was 
thick  and  humid  with  the  smoke  of  camp- 
fires  and  burning  plantations.  Rumour, 
with  her  thousand  tongues,  was  multiply- 
ing and  exaggerating  the  terrors  and  ca- 
sualties of  the  times ;  and  the  weak  and 
timid  spoke  in  half-whispers,  and  went 
each  night  to  bed  shuddering  at  some  re- 
cent tale  of  horror.  Even  the  commander- 
in-chief  of  the  British  forces  committed  as 
much  destruction  as  he  could  in  supplying 
his  army ;  and  his  progress,  like  the  flight 
of  eastern  locusts,  carried  terror  before  it, 
and  left  desolation  and  famine  behind.  Yet 
his  lordship  did  not  do  these  things  with 
impunity ;  for  both  he  and  his  more  savage 
subordinates  were  not  seldom  lectured  by 
the  good  dames  of  Alamance  and  of  other 
places,   who  bestowed  upon   them  more 


catholic  sermons  and  evangelical  denun- 
ciations of  tribulation  and  wrath  to  come 
than  they  had  heard  since  the  beginning 
of  the  war.  His  lordship,  however,  was 
a  gentleman,  and  suffered  himself  patiently 
to  be  denounced;  but  some  there  were, 
holding  commissions  in  his  army,  whose 
unmanly  cruelty  and  resentment  brought 
a  lasting  infamy  on  themselves,  and  on 
the  cause  in  which  they  were  engaged. 
If  we  knew  their  names  we  would  give 
them  for  the  eternal  execration  of  every 
honourable  mind. 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

A    NIGHT    OF    ADVENTURES. 

On  one  occasion,  just  after'the  various 
corps  of  the  British  army  had  encamped 
for  the  night,  a  scouting  party  captured 
two  females  and  a  negro  man ;  and,  in  the 
absence  of  their  commander,  undertook  to 
have  some  sport.  One  of  the  women  was 
somewhat  elderly,  plain-looking,  and  mas- 
culine, and  her  only  concern  seemed  to  be 
for  the  timid  and  girlish  companion,  who 
hung  tremblingly  by  her  arm,  concealing 
her  face. 

"  I  say,  my  pretty  mistress,"  said  one 
of  the  men,  taking  hold  of  the  girl,  "  I 
wish  to  see  that  sweet  face  of  yours.  It 
was  not  made  to  be  hid." 

"  Stand  off,  you  scurvy  knave !"  exclaim- 
ed the  elder  lady,  striking  the  soldier  in 
the  face. 

"  Well  done,  beldame  !  hurra,  she-devil !" 
shouted  his  companions,  pulling  back  the 
discomfited  soldier,  and  forming  a  ring 
round  the  women. 

The  heroine  who  had  dealt  the  blow, 
now  stood,  with  her  arms  folded,  facing 
her  enemies,  and  exhausting  on  them  all 
the  terms  of  abuse  in  the  English  language, 
while  her  terrified  companion  clung  to  her 
dress,  crying,  "Oh,  for  Heaven's  sake,  hush, 
or  they'll  kill  us,  they'll  kill  us !"  These 
cries  ^vere  in  vain;  for  the  stout  woman 
continued  her  harangue,  much  to  the  edi- 
fication of  a  portion  of  her  hearers,  who 
rewarded  her  with  frequent  bursts  of  ap- 
plause, some  shouting  "  Mount  her  on  a 
stump  !"  and  some,  "  Put  her  in  boots  and 
breeches!"  ' 

"  Ah,  marry  come  up  !  If  I  was  a  man, 
with  a  sword  at  my  side,  I  could  chase  you 
all  into  the  sea,  you  cowardly  villains,  you 
sniveling  scoundrels,  you  dirty  puppies, 
you  red-coated  rampscallions !" 

"  Three  cheers  for  that !"  shouted  the 
men. 

"  Yes ;  you  may  give  cheers  to  keep 
your  courage  up,  you  sneaking  cur-dogs! 
General  Greene  and  General  Washington 
will  get  hold  of  you  soon,  and  I  hope 
they'll  skin  you  like  a  parcel  of  eels,  and 
then  pickle  you  like  pork,  you  dastardly 


118 


ALAMANCE. 


rogues  !  you  robbers,  burglars,  murderers, 
thieves,  assassins,  and  pirates !" 

"  Look  here,  old  witch,"  said  one  of  the 
soldiers,  "you  mustn't  make  any  reflec- 
tions on  our  honour,  or  we  might  do  you 
some  damage."  , 

" ' Our  honour V  '"  exclaimed  she,  "as  if 
there  was  honour  among  such  filthy  vaga- 
bonds, such  rotten  scum !  Where  are  the 
mothers  that  bore  you,  where  are  your 
wives  and  sisters,  that  you  must  run  about 
the  country  murdering  children,  abusing 
helpless  women,  and  robbing,  burning,  and 
playing  the  mischief?  What  harm  have 
we  ever  done  to  you  ?  what  grudge "'' 

"  None  at  all,"  'said  one  of  the  men, 
*  except  in  being  so  d — d  ugh*.'5 

"  Ugly,  am  1,  you  son  of  perdition  % 
Ugly,  am  I,  fou  stinking  buzzard1?  I  had 
rather  be  ugly  than  be  a  liar,  a  thief,  a  cow- 
ard, rind  a  strolling  vagabond,  fighting  other 
people's  battles,  having  my  back  tanned 
eveiy  morning  by  my  master's  cowhide, 
and  covered  over  with  vermin,  filth,  and 
rottenness,  and  stinking  so  vileh'  that  the 
very  buzzards  wouldn't  touch  me,  though 
ever  so  hungry  !" 

"That's  a  whopper,"  exclaimed  the  stout- 
est man  in  the  company  ;  "  and,  to  show 
you  that  I  think  you  beautiful  as  Queen 
Dulcinea,  I'm  going  to  kiss  you  in  spite  of 
your  teeth,  if  you've  got  any.  Clear  the 
way,  boys  !" 

The  girl  again  implored  and  entreated 
her  friend  not  to  be  so  violent.  "  Oh,  do 
please  ask  them  for  mercy,"  she  cried,  in 
an  agony  of  alarm,  "  or  they'll  murder  and 
ruin  us  !  For  God's  sake,  for  my  sake, 
and  your  own,  speak  kindly  to  them  !" 

"  Stand  off,  child,"  said  the  other,  "  and 
let  me  alone.  Now  come  up,  you  banter- 
ing villain,  and  try  your  tricks  on  me." 
At  this,  as  the  man  came  towards  her,  she 
let  fly  into  his  face,  and  upon  his  head  and 
breast,  a  succession  of  well-airned  and 
powerful  blows,  which  speedily  brought 
the  soldier  senseless  to  the  earth. 

At  the  same  instant  a  voice  behind  them 
exclaimed,  "  What  new  row's  this,  you 
besotted  knaves  ?"  and,  the  men,  turning 
round,  were  abashed  by  the  presence  of 
two  mounted  officers.  "  "Will  you  forever 
disgrace  yourselves,  and  the  proud  name 
of  air  English  soldier,  b}-  your  infamous 
debauches  ?"  asked  the  eider  officer.  "  You 
shall  suffer  for  this,  for  I  know  you  all. 
Come  hither,  good  woman,  and  tell  me 
who  brought  you  here,  and  what  has  been 
done  to  you." 

This  was  addressed  to  the  older  female, 
but"  the  younger,  seeing  that  she  was  in 
the  presence  of  a  gentleman,  walked  near 
him  and  answered  "  We  were  going,  sir, 
with  that  servant,  whom  these  men  have 
tied,  to  a  neighbour's  house,  and  were  ta- 
ken near  this  place.  No  violence  has 
been  offered  to  us." 


"  Then,  in  God's  name,  fair  damsel,  take 
your  servant  and  friend,  and  go  in  peace  ; 
and  may  He  who  guards  the  innocent  be. 
with  you  !" 

"  But  I  must  ask  a  favour  of  you,  sir,  be- 
fore we  go,"  said  the  girl,  with  confidence.' 

"  I  shall  be  apt  to  grant  any  favour  in 
my  power  that  is  asked  by  lips  so  sweet. 
How  fair  she  looks  by  the  light  of  the 
moon !" 

"  My  request,"  replied  the  girl,  "is  for 
your  ear  alone,  good  sir ;  and  if  you  will 
walk  a  little  way  with  me  I  will  make  it 
known  to  you." 

"  By  Heaven,  she  is  fj  gem  !  Here,  Do- 
nald, hold  my  horse  till  I  act  the  part  of  a 
gallant  knight-errant  to  a  maiden  in  dis- 
tress. Come  on,  my  enchanted  princess, 
I'm  ready  to  swear  I'll  kill  any  giant,  hip- 
pogriff,  or  dragon  that  besets  your  path." 

"  My  name,"  said  the  girl,  when  beyond 
the  hearing  of  the  others,  "  is  Kate  War- 
den, and  that  good  woman  with  me  is  Mrs. 
Polly  Rust,  my  neighbour.  My  brother  is 
at  her  house,  and  I  am  going  there  to  see 
him,  and  I  wish  you  to  escort  us  safely  to 
the  place." 

"  By  St.  George,  maiden,  you  are  very 
rash  !"  exclaimed  the  officer.  "  Your  broth- 
er is  a  leading  rebel ;  and,  if  I  mistake  not, 
a  major  in  the  service.  Did  you  not  know 
it  is  my  duty  to  catch  him  wherever  I  can 
find  him?" 

"  I  knew,"  answered  Kate,  "  that  you 
would  kill  him  if  3'ou  could,  in  a  fair  and 
manly  fight ;  but  I  thought  the  brave  would 
scorn  to  betray  the  brave,  ^or  to  molest 
them  when  they  trusted  to  each  other's 
honour." 

"  And  so  they  would,  my  pretty  damsel, 
under  ordinary  circumstances ;  but  you 
must  remember  I  am  a  sworn  officer,  and 
that  my  duty  to  my  king  compels  me  to 
arrest  a  traitor  wherever  I  find  him." 

"  It  is  said  a  great  battle  is  going  to 
be  fought  soon,"  returned  Kate  Warden ; 
"  and  my  brother  wished  to .  see  me  once 
more,  as  he  might  never  get  another  op- 
portunity. I  have  betrayed  his  life,  I  fear, 
and  I  shall  never  be  happy  again.  Oh,  my 
dear  Henry!  what  will  you  think  of  my 
folly  "  and  the  poor  girl  began  to  wring 
her  laanda  and  weep. 

"  By  the  souls  of  my  ancestors,"  said 
the  officer,  "you  have  not  betrayed  him. 
I  will  not  molest  him  ;  but  I  cannot  go  with 
you.  Young  maiden,  you  must  excuse  me. 
It  really  seems  to  me  that  the  suggestions 
of  your  innocent  heart  are  the  true  be- 
hests of  that  honour  which  I  profess  to  be 
guided  by ;  and  yet  the  world  thinks  not 
so.  And  so  it  is,"  continued  he,  speaking 
to  himself;  "we  are  all  pursuing  phan- 
toms. We  profess  to  make  honour  our 
guide,  and  glory  our  end,  and  still  we  are 
ashamed  to  tread  what  we  know  to  be,  the 
path  of  real  honour  and  glory.     It  shall 


ALAMANCE. 


119 


not  be  so  with  me,  let  the  world  say  what 
it  may.  Young  lady,  I  grant  your  request 
to  its  fullest  extent ;  and  now  let  us  be 
off." 

So  saying,  he  led  her  back  to  his  horse, 
and  mounting  her  up  behind  him,  and  or- 
dering his  companion  to  take  up  Mrs.  Rust, 
,  and  telling  the  negro  to  lead  the  way, 
struck  off  through  the  woods.  The  older 
lady  was  behind  the  younger  officer,  and 
a  very  handsome  one  he  was,  though 
strangely  ungallant.  Totally  forgetful  of 
the  face,  feet,  and  dress  of  the  good  dame 
Rust,  he  would  not  keep  the  road,  but 
must  needs  dash  through  the  bushes  to  get 
alongside  of  his  senior  officer.  The  good 
woman  sometimes  uttered  an  ejaculation 
as  her  face  got  scratched,  or  a  great  rent 
made  in  her  dress,  and  Donald  M'Leod 
would  make  a  hasty  apology,  and  clash 
into  the  bushes  again.  He  said  nothing 
to  Kate,  noc'  did  she  speak  to  him ;  but 
though  it  was  night,  they  became  suffi- 
ciently acquainted  to  have  recognised  each 
other  ten  years  afterwards.  Arrived  at 
Mrs.  Rust's,  the  latter  was  profuse  in  her 
thanks,  and  Kate  begged  to  know  how  she 
could  return  her  gratitude. 

"I  am  overpaid  by  my  own  heart,"  said 
the  senior ;  "  still,  1  hope  you  will  believe 
me  to  be  a  gentleman  according  to  your 
own  understanding  of  that  word." 

"  And  me,  your  faithful  .servant,"  said 
the  other. 

"  Ah,  Donald !  However,  I'm  mum,"  re- 
marked the  senior,  v/ith  a  laugh. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  Kate,  "  here  is  my 
handkerchief;  if  you  will  wear  it  about 
you  in  battle,  it  may  be  of  service." 

"As  we  can't  both  use  it  at  the  same 
time,"  replied  the  older  gentleman,  "  I  will 
give  it  to  him  for  whom  it  was  meant." 

"And  here  is  mine  for  you,  sir,"  said 
Mrs.  Rust ;  "  there  is  virtue  in  it." 

"  I'll  keep  it,"  answered  he  to  whom  it 
was  offered,  "  to  remind  me  of  an  honest 
deed ;  but  as  for  charms  and  amulets,  I 
need  them  not.  Miss  Warden,  you  will 
please  to  present  to  yourbrother,  the  major, 
the  compliments  of  Colonel  Webster,  and 
tell  him  to  be  off  by  the  early  dawn,  or  I 
cannot  answer  for  his  safety.  Tell  him 
also,  that  I  should  be  happy  to  meet  him 
whenever  it  shall  please  General  Greene 
to  choose  his  field.  And  so,  my  duty  to 
you,  ladies,  and  may  peace  be  with  you." 

Kate  Warden  did  not  fail  to  tell  her 
brother  all  that  had  happened ;  nor  Mrs. 
Rust  to  express  her  astonishment  at  find- 
ing a  Christian  and  a  gentleman  among 
the  British.  The  visit  of  Henry  -Warden 
was  undertaken  for  a  double  purpose. 
He  had  some  things  of  importance  to 
communicate  from  his  father  to  his  fam- 
ily, and,  labouring  under  a  depression  of 
spirits,  he  was  extremely  desirous  of  see- 
ing his  sister  and  mother  once  more.    His 


wish  was  in  part  gratified,  and,  after  a 
most  affecting  interview,  he  took  his  leave 
of  Kate,  with  a  sad  foreboding  that  he 
would  see  her  no  more. 

Hector  M'Bride  and  his  party  happened, 
on  this  very  same  night,  to  get  within  the 
English  camp,  and  all  were  taken  prison- 
ers, except  Corny  Demijohn.  That  valiant 
knight,  having  the  only  sword  in  the  com- 
pany, and  having  become  a  tolerable  horse- 
man, cut  his  way  through  the  centre  of  the 
camp,  scorning  to  turn  his  back,  and  cre- 
ating among  the  half-sleeping  soldiers  a 
terrible  alarm.  Thinking  at  first  that  they 
were  attacked  by  at  least  twenty  thou- 
sand .cavalry,  and  seeing  a  huge  giant, 
with  a  blood-dripping  sword,  bearing  down 
through  their  midst,  the  men  gathered 
their  arms,  and  ran  hither  and  thither  in 
confusion  ;  the  officers  shouted,  the  drums 
rattled,  and  alarm-guns  were  fired.  To 
add  to  the  consternation,  Captain  Corny, 
seeing  the  state  of  things,  gave  a  tremen- 
dous shout,  and  as  he  neared  the  last  com- 
pany, who  were  under  arras,  he  cried, 
"  Surrender,  you  knaves,  or  you'll  be  butch- 
ered in  an  instant !"  The  men  stood  ir- 
resolute, half-disposed  to  lay  down  their 
arms;  and  Captain  Demijohn  was  carried 
by  his  faithful  charger  beyond  the  reach 
of  danger,  having  killed  three  men  in  his 
perilous  passage,  and  caused  the  whole 
British  army  to  be  formed  for  battle.  The 
officers  were  so  much  mortified  at  what 
had  happened  that  they  retained  the  ladies 
prisoners,  and  there  is  a  tradition  that  one 
of  them  fell  violently  in  love  with  Lucy 
Neal.  Be  that  as  it  may,  the  prisoners 
were  all  handsomely  treated,  though  their 
captivity  came  near  breaking  the  hearts 
of  Rust  and  his  sable  namesake. 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

EVENTS    STILL   HASTEN    ONWARD. 

"  As  it  was  now  confidently  expected, 
from  the  return  from  Virginia  of  General 
Greene,  and  from  his  aggressive  move- 
ments, that  a  battle  was  inevitable,  the 
scattered  Whigs  emerged  from  their  hiding- 
places,  and  flocked  to  the  standard  of  their 
leader.  They  hastened  off  from  the  im- 
mediate neighbourhood  and  from  remote 
quarters,  some  on  foot  and  some  on  horse- 
back ;  some  singly  offering  their  services, 
and  some  in  small  companies,  consisting 
of  not  more  than  half  a  dozen.  They  came 
with  such  weapons  as  they  had  with  them 
in  their  concealment,  and  some  of  them 
without  any  arms  at  all.  They  came  from 
caves,  from  swamps,  and  from  hollow 
trees,  their  long  beards,  worn  garments, 
and  emaciated  forms,  giving  them  a  wild 
and  picturesque  appearance.  They  knew 
little  or  nothing  of  the  discipline  of  armies: 
and,  strangers  to  the  feelings  of  the  trained 


120 


ALAMANCE. 


soldier,  whose  trade  is  war,  they  came  to 
make  a  final  stand  for  their  homes  and 
their  property — to  strike  one  blow  in  their 
own  way  for  their  country  and  its  liberties. 
Of  such  materials  consisted  mainly  the 
army  of  General  Greene,  the  last  hope  of 
the  patriots  in  the  South.  It  was  a  bare, 
sickly,  and  ragged  rout,  with  every  species 
of  rusty  arms,  without  discipline,  and  part 
of  it  without  officers,  and  of  whom  it 
might  have  been  said  by  their  scornful 
foes, 

'  Big  Mars  seems  bankrupt  in  their  beggared  host, 
And  faintly  through  a  rusty  beaver  peeps.' 

In  striking  contrast  with  these  were  the 
enemies  whom  they  were  zealous  to  en- 
counter. Cornwallis,  when  marching  to 
meet  them,  took  Alamance  in  his  rout ;  the 
tramp  of  his  steeds,  the  braying  of  his  trum- 
pets, and  the  hoarse  rattle  of  his  drums 
startling  the  echoes  of  that  former  abodeof 
peace,  while  his  streaming  banners  flouted 
proudly  in  the  eyes  of  its  inhabitants.  As 
the  women  of  this  ancient  community  be- 
held, from  the  crowded  windows  and  balco- 
nies, the  sheen  of  their  glittering  arms,  and 
their  terrible  train  of  destructive  engines, 
their  thoughts  turning  to  their  husbands 
and  their  brothers  in  the  camp  of  General 
Greene,  some  gave  way  to  despair; 'and 
others,  lifting  their  eyes  to  heaven,  mutely 
implored  the  aid  of  its  avenging  arm  for 
their  friends  and  country.  When  the  array, 
in  all  the  pomp  and  pride  of  military  show, 
had  passed  out  of  view,  and  the  sound  of 
the  music  died  away  upon  the  distant  hills, 
an  awful  silence  followed ;  the  elements 
of  local  strife  were  stilled,  and  all  eyes  and 
hearts  were  turned,  in  hushed  and  painful 
expectation,  to  the  scene  of  the  approach- 
ing conflict.  Confident  in  their  well-disci- 
plined strength,  despising  the  might  of  their 
adversaries,  with  the  savage  delight  and 
swift  fury  of  hungry  wolves,  when  about 
to  overtake  the  spoil  that  has  long  eluded 
them,  the  royalists  hastened  on  to  where 
their  prey  had  made  his  final  stand,  and 
turned  at  bay.  They  found  him  on  his  well- 
chosen  ground  at  Guilford  Court  House, 
calm  as  a  summer  morning,  an  eagle  in  his 
eyrie,  watching  with  keen  and  steady  eye 
the  coming  storm,  and  prepared  to  make  a 
4desperate  struggle." 

This  is  the  manner  in  which  the  master 
begins  his  account  of  the  battle  of  Guil- 
fordj-an  engagement  which  he  witnessed 
with  lively  and  varied  emotions.  He  and 
his  fellow-prisoners  were  kept  under  a 
small  guard  in  the  rear  of  the  British  army, 
and  beyond  the  reach  of  danger ;  and  from 
here  it  was  that  he  saw  the  conflict.  He 
and  Edith  Mayfield  were  the  only  two  per- 
sons in  the  company  whose  sympathies 
were  in  unison  on  that  occasion.  This 
latter,  looking  on  herself  as  dead  to  love 
and  to  Henry  Warden,  and  animated  now 


with  a  holy  fervour  for  her  country  and  its 
liberties,  awaited  the  issue  of  the  struggle 
with  the  intensest  interest.  Nannie  Scott 
kept  her  eyes  on  Rust,  with  an  expression 
that  showed  how  grateful  she  was  that  he 
was  not  in  the  strife  ;  and  Lucy  Neal,  half 
dead  with  fright,  thinking  only  of  Henry 
Warden,  shook  like  an  aspen  at  every  ex- 
plosion of  the  artillery,  and  fancying  every 
gun  was  aimed  at  him  she  loved,  enquired 
often  and. anxiously  if  the  battle  was  not 
over.  As  for  the  two  Bens,  they  were 
nearly  wild  with  grief — the  one  because  he 
could  not  be  near  his  old  master,  the  other 
because  he  was  not  in  the  fight.  None  of 
the  ladies  could  bear  to  look  upon  the  field ; 
but  M'Bride,  who,  with  the  Bens,  stood  upon 
a  high  rock,  gave  them,  from  time  to  time, 
information  in  regard  to  the  progress  of 
the  struggle. 

"  May  the  Almighty  curse  them  cow- 
ards !"  exclaimed  Ben  Rust,  soon  after  the 
fight  began  ;  "  what  a  glorious  sweep  they 
had !" 

"  Those  are  militia,  Ben,"  said  the  mas- 
ter, "  and  never  saw  a  fight  before.  See 
what  a  heap  of  dead  they  piled  up  at  the 
first  fire,  and  see  how,  like  lightning,  gleam 
the  British  bayonets  which  dispersed  them. 
That  was  the  first  charge,  and  those  poor 
fellows  had  not  yet  got  warmed  in  the  : 
struggle." 

"  Is  our  side  giving  way  V  asked  Edith. 

"  A  goodly  number  of  them  have  fled 
after  a  single  fire,"  answered  the  master, 
"  and  1  fear  it  is  impossible  to  retrieve  the 
disaster.  Yes,  I  believe  we  will  yet  gain 
the  day,  for  do  but  see  how  the  second 
line  stands  its  ground.  The  bayonets  are 
nearly  on  them ;  and  now,  my  gallant  fel- 
lows, now's  the  time  to  show  your  mettle. 
Glorious !  what  a  terrible  fire  was  that ! 
Gloriously  done  again  !■  Do  but  behold 
how  their  ranks  are  thinned  and  torn!" 

"  Is  not  the  battle  over  ?"  anxiously  en- 
quired Lucy. 

"  Over !"  exclaimed  Rust ;  "  If  I  was 
General  Greene  I'd  pepper  them  till  every 
red-coated  knave  had  bit  the  dust  or  left 
the  field.  Oh  that  I  was  jist  there,  with 
my  rifle !" 

"  You  forget  where  you  are,  young  man,1 ' 
said  one  of  his  guards  to  Rust. 

"I  wish  I  could,"  he  replied,  "but  if 
I've  hurt  your  feelings  I  beg  pardon.  Na- 
tur  will  have  its  way." 

"  Who  now  appears  to  have  the  advan- 
tage ?"  asked  Edith. 

"  It's  hard  to  say,"  answered  the  master, 
"for  they  are  every  where  engaged,  and 
the  whole  field  is  one  sheet  of  flame.  Who 
is  that  British  officer  mounted  on  a  fine 
black  charger1?" 

"  That,"  said  one  of  the  soldiers,  "  is 
Colonel  Webster,  one  of  the  best  officers 
in  the  service." 

"  By  my  soul,  he  is  showing  it  to-day," 


ALAMANCE. 


121 


exclaimed  M'Bride ;  "  and  he's  every  where 
in  the  thickest  of  the  fray.  Oh,  God  !  our 
second  line  is  giving  way.  1  cannot  bear 
the  sight." 

"  Are  we  beaten  V  enquired  Edith, 
"please  look  again." 

"  There  is  yet  hope,"  said  the  master, 
"for  there  is  still  another  line  to  be  at- 
tacked, the  brave  Continentals  as  1  judge." 

"  Do  you  see  any  of  our  friends  1"  asked 
Lucy. 

"  I  cannot  tell  a  man  at  this  distance," 
replied  the  master ;  "  but  I  have  thought 
more  than  once  that  I  saw  Henry  Warden. 
Yes,  it  is  he,  as  I  live — it  must  be  he  !  Oh, 
if  you  could  only  see  how  gallantly  he 
bears  himself!  There  goes  old  Greene 
along  the  lines,  honour  and  glory  to  his 
name !  He  must  be  preparing  for  a  des- 
perate effort,  and  now  they  are  at  it,  man 
to  man,  and  squadron  to  squadron.  Brave 
mew,  now's  the  time  to  put  forth  all  your 
energies !  May  the  might  of  a  thousand 
giants  nerve  your  arms  !  Oh,  do  but  look 
at  that  noble  officer!  It  is  Washington, 
with  his  cavalry,  and  down  he  comes  with 
an  awful  swoop,  scattering  all  before  him  ! 
Great  heavens !  I  see  among  his  men  the 
huge  form  of  Uncle  Corny!  His  sword 
seems  to  be  red  with  blood ;  see,  he  has 
split  down  at  least  a  dozen !" 

"Are  we  not  about  to  gain  the  day1?" 
again  asked  Edith. 

"  I'll  tell  you  when  the  smoke  clears 
away,"  said  the  master.  "  Indeed,"  con- 
tinued he,  "  I  do  believe  we  are.  There 
comes  Washington  again,  like  a  furious 
whirlwind,  and  nothing  stands  before  him. 
They  falter,  they  are  thrown  in  confusion. 
Victory!  victory!" 

Every  one  but  the  ladies  now  mounted 
the  rock,  and  watched  in  silence  and  with 
intense  interest  the  progress  of  the  fight. 

"  Great  God !"  exclaimed  M'Bride,  at 
length,  "  Cornwallis  is  firing  on  his  own 
men!  The  field  is  now  a  terrible  scene, 
and  the  last  struggle  has  come.  There 
goes  old  Greene  again  !  What  a  glorious 
chief  he  is !  Alas !  in  vain  has  he  con- 
tested every  inch :  his  men  are  falling 
back ;  we  are  lost,  we  are  lost !"  and  in 
an  agony  of  grief  the  master  sat  down 
and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

"  They've  paid  dearly  for  their  victory," 
said  Rust;  "  and  the  old  fox  is  not  beaten, 
though  he  retreats.  He  goes  off  in  good 
order  with  his  bristles  up,  and  growlin  as 
if  he  wanted  to  try  it  over  again." 

It  was  even  so.  The  American  com- 
mander, after  a  desperate  struggle,  in 
which  his  genius  and  his  courage  shone 
resplendent,  was  forced  to  yield  a  field  on 
which  he  left  dead  twice  as  many  of  the 
enemy  as  of  his  own  men.  Had  he  been 
able  to  have  maintained  the  combat  an 
hour  longer,  Cornwallis,  with  all  his  army, 
would  have  fallen  into  his  hands  :  and  even 


as  it  was,  the  enemy  were  so  entirely  crip- 
pled that  they  commenced  an  immediate 
and  rapid  retreat,  dismissing  their  prison- 
ers, and  continuing  their  flight  till  they  fell 
an  easy  prey  at  Yorktown.  Thus  it  ever 
seemed  to  be  with  General  Greene.  In  all 
his  battles  he  deserved  success ;  but  he 
was  fated  never  to  achieve  a  victory,  but 
to  win  laurels  for  other  brows. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

At  the  grey  dawn  of  the  following  morn- 
ing Edith  Mayfield  was  on  the  field  of  the 
late  engagement.  The  birds  were  singing 
merrily  where  lately  the  din  of  battle  raged 
so  fiercely  ;  but  the  shattered  trees,  the  fis- 
sures in  the  trenched  and  furrowed  earth, 
and  the  heaps  of  dead  bodies  that  were 
dimly  visible  in  the  dusky  twilight,  still  re- 
minded the  visiter  of  the  late  awful  pres- 
ence of  war.  Attracted  by  their  groans, 
Edith  sought  out  the  living,  to  some  of 
whom  she  brought  water,  bound  up  the 
wounds  of  others,  and  spoke  words  of  con- 
solation to  the  dying,  whose  parting  spirits 
she  commended  to  the  mercy  of  thfeir 
Giver.  Several  expired  while  she  was 
with  them,  and,  as  she  was  dressed  in 
white,  they  believed  they  saw  an  appari- 
tion, and  their  last  looks  were  fixed  on 
her,  and  their  last  words  called  for  bless- 
ings on  her  head.  As  some  of  the  wounded 
men  had  known  her  before,  and  had  heard 
of  her  death,  they  confirmed  the  notion 
that  she  was  a  spirit,  a  celestial  messen- 
ger of  light  and  peace  sent  to  relieve  the 
wants  and  assuage  the  pangs  of  the  suffer- 
ing patriots.  The  character  of  the  times, 
and  the  sombre  hue  of  public  sentiment, 
lent  credit  to  these  opinions,  even  in  the 
eyes  of  the  early  visiters,  and  thus  origi- 
nated the  current  tradition  of  the  Pale 
Lady,  whose  mission  it  was  to  heal  the 
wounded  in  the  American  army,  and  con- 
sign the  souls  of  the  dying  to  a  long  and 
sweet  repose.  While  she  was  thus  en- 
gaged, and  as  the  beams  of  the  rising  sun 
were  gilding  the  tree-tops,  she  was  met' 
by  a  young  English  officer,  who  court- 
eously saluted  her,  and  enquired  if  she 
was  acquainted  with  the  father  of  Major 
Warden. 

"  If  you  mean  George  Warden,  sir,  the 
father  of  Mr.  Henry  Warden,  I  am,"  an- 
swered Edith. 

"  George  Warden  is  the  gentleman  to 
whom  I  allude,"  said  Donald  M'Leod,  look- 
ing at  the  superscription  of  a  letter  which 
he  held  in  his  hand,  "  and  I  must  beg  your 
assistance  in  the  discharge  of  a  duty  which 
I  owe  to  him.  His  son  yesterday  saved  my 
life,  took  me  prisoner,  and  had  me  released 
upon  my  parole,  and  gave  me  a  letter  to 
his  father,  who,  it  is  said,  was  wounded  in 


122 


ALAMANCE. 


the  engagement.  I  promised  Major  War- 
den that  I  would  immediately  seek  out  the 
old  gentleman,  and  see  that  his  wounds 
were  attended  to ;  but,  as  I  do  not  know 
him,  I  will  thank  you  to  point  him  out  to 
mo  as  soon  as  you  can  find  him." 

By  a  small  stream  on  the  edge  of  the 
field,  where  the  fight  had  been  hardest, 
Edith  saw  Hector  M'Bride  seated,  and  ap- 
pearing to  be  in  conversation  with  a  man 
"who  was  lying  on  the  ground,  and  resting 
his  head  on  the  palm  of  his  hand.  Going 
thither  with  the  British  officer,  she  found 
George  Warden,  who  greeted  her  with 
lively  demonstrations  of  pleasure  at  the 
meeting,  and  to  whom  she  immediately  in- 
troduced her  companion.  After  the  salu- 
tations were  over,  M'Bride  requested  his 
friend  to  continue  the  account  of  the  battle 
which  he  had  begun,  and  George  Warden 
thus  proceeded :  "  As  I  was  about  to  re- 
late when  these  friends  came  up,  the  North 
Carolina  militia  poured  one  destructive 
fire  into  the  ranks  of  the  enemy,  and  then 
broke  and  fled.  I  am  proud,  however,  to 
say  that  this  inglorious  example  was  not 
universally  followed,  for  one  company 
fought  gallantly  and  nobly  throughout  the 
engagement.  These  were  the  Guilford 
militia,  many  of  them  being  from  our  own 
Alamance,  whence  also  came,  as  you  know, 
their  heroic  commander,  Captain  Forbes, 
who  was  mortally  wounded  in  the  engage- 
ment." 

"  Remember  that  fact,"  said  the  master, 
"and  I  will  also  put  it  in, my  notes  as  a 
testimony  against  the  charge  of  cowardice 
■which  will  be  hereafter  brought  against  all 
the  militia  of  the  state.  But  where  was 
our  friend  Captain  Demijohn  1  Did  he 
bear  himself  with  his  accustomed  gal- 
lantry." 

"  He  did,"  replied  Warden  ;  "  in  fact,  I 
may  say  he  fairly  eclipsed  himself.  As  I 
have  intimated  before,  he  came  up  mys- 
teriously, just  on  the  eve  of  battle,  and 
took  his  station  by  my  side  in  the  cavalry. 
He  was  not  in  a  humour  for  talking,  and 
briefly  told  me  that  my  sweet  friend  here, 
Edith  Mayfield,  yourself,  Rust,  and  others 
were  prisoners  in  the  British  army.  As  I 
pressed  him  for  an  account  of  his  adven- 
tures, an  explosion  of  cannon  shook  the 
greund,  the  chest  of  my  friend  heaved 
with  emotion,  his  eyes  flashed  fire,  and, 
seizing  my  hand,  he  said :  '  The  master 
will  tell  you  all ;  I  allude  to  Lieutenant 
M'Bride,  who  will  do  justice  to  my  mem- 
ory. My  true  and  ancient  friend,  I  am  in 
the  humour  for  blows  now;  not  words — I 
am  for  blood— the  blood  of  the  tyrants, 
and  by  the  Eternal  it  shall  flow  to-day! 
When  you  return  to  Alamance,  and  are 
happy  there  among  your  friends,  some- 
times remember  and  speak  kindly  of  Un- 
cle Corny.  Good  by !'  So  saying  he 
braced  himself  for  the  fight,  and  ati  day 


[he  was  by  my  side  in  the  thickest  of  the 
I  fray,  saying  not  a  word,  and  laying  about 
j  him  like  a  giant.  In  the  last  splendid 
charge,  led  by  Washington,  he  actually 
split  down  eleven  men,  over  the  last  of 
whom  he  fell  himself,  saying,  as  he  fell, 
'  Oh,  my  mother!'  These  were  his  dying 
words ;  for  that  he  is  dead  I  have  no  doubt, 
as  he  fell  near  me,  and  1  have  often  called 
to  him  during  the  night  without  an  answer. 
Such  was  the  end  of  my  friend,  of  whom  I 
may  truly  say, 

'  In  this  glorious  and  well-foughten  field 
We  kept  together  in  our  chivalry.' 

Peace  be  to  his  ashes !" 

"  Amen  !"  exclaimed  the  master,  "  and 
may  God  rest  his  soul  forever !  A  better 
man  or  a  braver  soldier  never  drew  a  sword 
or  put  a  lance  in  rest ;  but  it  is  time  to 
seek  him  out  and  bury  him  with  becoming 
honours  on  the  field  of  his  glory." 

Accordingly,  Warden  was  now  conveyed 
to  a  neighbouring  house,  and  left  to  the 
care  of  Edith  and  her  female  companions, 
while  the  master,  with  Rust  and  M'Leod, 
returned  to  the  battle-field.  The  two  lat- 
ter examined  with  great  curiosity,  and  a 
livery  interest,  the  scene  of  the  engage- 
ment,, the  young  Englishman  gratifying 
his  rough  companion  by  pointing  out  the 
most  memorable  localities,  and  giving  a 
detailed  history  of  \he  contest.  As  for  the 
master,  now  satiated  with  the  horrors  of 
war,  and  profoundly  meditating  on 
"  Man's  inhumanity  to  man," 

he  went  strolling  about  the  field,  with  his 
hands  clasped  behind  him,  taking  no  no- 
tice of  any  one,  and  being,  in  return,  no- 
ticed by  none.     He  traversed  every  part 
of  the  field,  and  his  reflections  became 
more  sad  and  solemn  from  what  he  now 
heard    and    saw   around    him.     Weeping 
I  women  and  children  were  now  swarming 
!  in  the  places  so  lately  covered  with  mar- 
tial hosts  glittering  in  the  panoply  of  war, 
and  groans,  cries,  and  lamentations  re- 
sounded through  every  part  of  the  scene. 
Mothers,  wives,  and  sisters  were  wailing 
i  over  the  dead  and  wounded  bodies  of  their 
'  friends,  husbands,  and  sons  ;  and  the  mas- 
ter, to  whose  ears,  in  his  present  mood, 
these  sounds  of  sorrow  and  woe  were  not 
i  ungrateful,  became  lost  in  thought,  and  al- 
most forgot  himself   and  his   friend,' for 
whose  body  he  had  commenced  a  search, 
I  when  he  was  suddenly  and  unpleasantly 
|  interrupted  by  the  voice  of  Rust,  who  ex- 
!  claimed,  near  him,  "By  Jehu!  if  the  old 
[  dame  don't  take  a  Britisher  for  me  !" 

"  I  know  what  I  am  about,  my  son,"  an- 

|  swered  Mrs.  Rust,  embracing,  with  great 

j  fervour  and  lively  affection,  the  astonished 

and  blushing  M'Leod.     "And  do  you  think 

I  could  ever  forget  you,  my  darling,  my 

dear  child  V  continued  she,  as  she  releas- 

I  ed  the  young  officer,  and  flew  upon  her 


ALAMANCE. 


123 


son,  overpowering  him  with  her  embraces, 
laughing  and  crying  by  turns,  and  address- 
ing Ben,  who  stood  motionless  and  silent, 
with  every  kind  of  endearing  appellation. 

"  You  don't  seem  to  notice  me,  Mr. 
M'Bride,"  said  a  low,  soft  voice  behind 
him ;  and,  turning,  the  master  was  some- 
what confused  at  finding  Kate  Warden, 
who  had  been  standing  near  him,  and 
whom  he  had  not  observed.  His  apologies 
for  his  neglect  were  kindly  and  graciously 
received;  but  he  was  confounded  when  he 
found  that  the  blushing  girl  and  Donald 
M'Leod,  whose  cheeks  were  also  red,  had 
been  conversing  together,  and  were  ac- 
quainted with  each  other.  To  his  inex- 
pressible mortification  he  heard  from  Mrs. 
Rust  of  her  own  and,  Kate's  adventure  with 
the  British  officers;  yet,  touched  by  the 
chivalrous  bearing  of  Colonel  Webster,  he 
was  prompted  to  enquire  for  his  fate. 

"  He  fell,  mortally  wounded,"  replied 
M'Leod,  "  and  will  never  again  see  a  field 
of  strife."    - 

"  His  was  a  noble  and  a  gallant  spirit," 
answered  M'Bride,  "  and  he  fell  on  a  bloody 
field,  where  his  peers  were  few." 

""  I  wish  he  had  worn  the  handkerchief," 
said  Polly  Rust. 

"  It  could  not  have  saved  so  brave  and 
proud  a  man,  who  went  into  the  fight  to 
conquer  or  die,"  answered  M'Leod.  "Nev- 
ertheless, he  treasures  the  gift,  and  will 
send  it  home  to  his  friends,  as  an  humble 
but  honourable  testimony  of  his  humanity 
and  gallantry  in  this  long  and  savage  war. 
No  stain  of  cruelty  will  rest  on  his  name  ; 
and  the  last  words  he  said  to  me  were, 
that  he  hoped  you,  M.iss  Warden,  and  sucli 
as  you,  would  cherish  his  memory  as  one 
who  was  a  gentleman  and  aheroinyourown 
just  sense  of  those  terms.  My  present," 
continued  the  speaker,  more  gaily,  "  served 
me  to  better  purpose,  and  I  must  needs 
always  wear  it  next  to  that  grateful  heart 
whose  warm  blood  it  saved  from  being 
spilled  on  this  ensanguined  field." 

Kate  blushed  crimson,  and  took  the 
proffered  arm  of  M'Leod,  who  led  her  off 
to  see  her  father;  and  the  master,  who  had 
hoped  to  find  a  companion  in  the  young 
officer,  fell  into  a  train  of  unpleasant 
thoughts.  "Thus  it  is."  thought  he;  "I 
can  find  no  man  who  has  not  had  an  ad- 
venture with  a  lady  ;  and  even  on  this  sad 
and  impressively  solemn  scene,  my  sub- 
lime meditations  must  be  interrupted,  and 
my  thoughts  brought  down  to  the  ephem- 
eral concerns  of  giddy  young  mortals  by 
the  foolery  of  love-making,  is  there  a  spot 
on  earth  where  hands  are  not  squeezed 
and  light  hearts  palpitate  not  with  lasciv- 
ious emotions  ■?  If  there  is  I'll  find  it  out, 
and  build  me  a  cottage  there ;  but  alas  !  I 
shall  never  find  the  place.  I  have  heard 
whispering,  and  seen  blushes,  around  the 
couch  of  the  dying;  seen  ogling  done  at 


prayers,  and  soft  glances  exchanged  over 
the  coffin  as  it  was  lowered  into  the  grave 
Verily,  I  almost  believe  that  if  the  last 
trump  were  to  summons  earth's  grovelling 
mortals  to  their  final  dread  account,  fond 
looks  and  tokens  would  be  exchanged,  and 
lingers  squeezed  in  the  vast  crowd  that 
gathered  round  the  awful  tribunal  of  their 
Judge !" 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

On  the  day  of  the  battle  of  Guilford 
Court  House,  many  of  the  women  of  Ala- 
mance assembled  at  the  house  of  Esther 
Bell,  and  joined  in  prayers  to  Heaven  for 
the  success  of  their  friends.  Black  Dan 
had  been  despatched  to  bring  early  tidings 
of  the  fight ;  and,  as  the  sun  descended  in 
the  west,  anxiety  became  so  intense,  that 
none  spoke  /but  with  their  eyes,  all  bend- 
ing their  looks  incessantly  towards  the 
battle-field.  It  was  a  day  of  doubts,  of 
gloom,  and  horror.  Even  conscious  na- 
ture, to  the  Alamancers,  seemed  to  wear 
a  grave  and  sombre  look ;  the  air  was  thick 
and  sultry,  the  skies  were  dark  and  threat- 
ening, the  voices  only  of  the  saddest  birds 
were  heard,  and  a  solemn  stillness  reigned 
around.  At  length,  late  in  the  night,  the 
long-expected  messenger  arrived,  and  gave 
a  full  and  authentic  account  of  the  engage- 
ment. As  he  finished,  a  small  and  aged 
lady,  whose  locks  were  as  white  as  snow, 
and  who  seemed  to  be  gradually  withering 
away  from  earth,  exclaimed,  ringing  her 
hands  and  lifting  up  her  eyes,  "  O  my  son 
Absalom  !  my  son,  my  son  Absalom,  would 
to  God  I  had  died  for  thee,  O  Absalom,  my 
son,  my  son  !"  It  was  the  mother  of  Un- 
cle Corny  who  spoke  ;  and  all,  touched  to 
the  heart  by  her  misfortunes,  mingled  their 
tears  in  silence,  while  she  sat  mutely  mov- 
ing her  lips  in  prayer.  At  length,  master- 
ing her  emotion,  she  rose,  and,  with  a  face 
beaming  like  that  of  an  ancient  sibyl,  wheu 
under  the  influence  of  inspiration,  she  said : 
"  My  friends,  if  I  have  given  way  to  nature 
you  must  not  blame  me.  I  am  like  a  blast- 
ed tree,  whose  scions  are  all  withered,  and 
from  which  no  bud  or  branch  can  ever 
spring  again.  ■  My  house  is  desolate — the 
light  of  my  heart  is  extinguished — the  prop 
and  staff  of  my  declining  years  is  gone. 
The  last  hope  of  my  house  is  blighted,  and 
with  me  my  name  must  soon  perish  from 
the  earth.  Yet  can  I  truly  say,  with  the 
patient  Job,  '  The  Lord  gave,  and  the  Lord 
hath  taken  away ;  blessed  be  the  name  of 
the  Lord.'  But  though  my  eyes  be  dim,  and 
the  years  of  my  pilgrimage  are  more  than 
threescore  years  arid  ten,  it  is  yet  reserv- 
ed for  me  to  see  the  redemption  of  my 
land.  'Then,  strengthen  ye  the  weak  hands 
and  confirm  the  feeble  knees  :  for  the  Lord 


124 


ALAMANCE. 


hath  called  thee  as  a  woman  forsaken  and 
grieved  in  spirit,  and  a  wife  of  youth  when 
thou  wast  refused,  saith  thy  God.  For  a 
small  moment  have  I  forsaken  thee ;  but 
with  great  mercies  will  I  gather  thee.  In 
a  little  wrath  I  hid  my  face  from  thee  for  a 


moment;   but   with   everlasting   kindness 'and  send  off  his  slaves,  and  then 'to  sell  his 


Nathan  was  himself  aware  of  the  odium 
attached  to  his  name,  and  finding  it  impos- 
sible to  restore  himself  to  his  former  posi- 
tion in  society,  and  fearing  too  for  his  per- 
sonal safety,  he  resolved  to  move.  He 
intended  first  secretly  to  hunt  out  a  location 


will  I  have  mercy  on  thee,  saitb  the  Lord, 
thy  Redeemer.  Then  shall  thy  light  break 
forth  as  the  morning;  ye  shall  go  forth 
.with  joy,  and  be  led  forth  with  peace;  the 
mountains  and  the  hills  shall  break  forth 
before  you  into  singing,  and  all  the  trees 
of  the  field  shall  clap  their  hands.'  And 
now  to  that  God  who  sitteth  upon  the  circle 
of  the  earth,  while  the  inhabitants  thereof 
are  as  grasshoppers  before  him,  let  every 
heart  bow  in  prayer." 

While  the  company  still  remained  at 
Esther  Bell's  during  the  following  day, 
George  Warden  and  several  other  wounded 
men  were  brought  in  ;  but  the  person  who 
excited  most  astonishment,  and  most  joy, 
was  Edith  Mayfield.  Her  mother  fainted 
oftener  than  she  had  done  when  she  heard 
of  her  death,  and  it  is  not  extravagant  to 
say  that,  for  a  while,  she  created  a  sensa- 
tion of  pleasure  as  lively  as  if  the  inde- 
pendence of  the  States  had  been  recognized 
by  the  parent  country.  Thus  every  evil 
is  tempered  with  some  unexpected  good ; 
and,  in  fact,  her  return  was  a  general  bless- 
ing, for  it  was  universally  regarded  as  a 
happy  omen.  The  drooping  spirits  of  the 
people  began  to  revive,  the  Whigs  came 
flocking  home,  industry  began  to  assume 
its  wonted  course,  and  the  Tories,  left 
without  the  protection  of  the  British,  quit 
their  predatory  habits,  and  many  of  them 
left  the  country.  The  family  of  George 
Warden,  however,  were  still  in  straiten- 
ed circumstances,  and,  having  no  home  of 
their  own,  at  the  earnest  solicitation  of 
Mrs.  Mayfield,  and  of  Edith,  took  up  their 
residence  with  them.  Thither,  also,  went 
Lucy  Neal,  Nannie  Scott,  and  Hector 
M'Bride  ;  and,  as  Ben  Rust  was  a  frequent 
visiter,  the  mansion  of  the  Mayfields  be- 
came what  it  had  never  been  before,  the 
head-quarters  of  the  Whigs.  The  patriots 
began  now  to  scour  the  country  and  exe- 
cute summary  justice  on  their  enemies. 
As  some  of  their  proceedings  are  worthy 
of  note,  the  reader  will  find  an  account  of 
them  in  the  following  chapter. 


CHAPTER  L. 

"  That  night  a  child  might  understand, 
The  De'il  had  business  on  his  hand." 

Tam^D'Shanter. 

A  thousand  strange  rumours  in  regard 
to  Nathan  Glutson  had  long  been  afloat 
at  Alamance.  His  house  was  never  visited 
by  the  Whigs,  and  it  was  even  supposed 
that  he  secretly  kept  in  pay  a  number  of 
Tories,  who  guarded  his  stolen  treasure. 


house  and  lands  for  what  they  would  bring, 
and  carry  off  his  family.  The  night  before 
he  was  to  start  in  search  of  a  new  home 
set  in  with  a  threatening  bank  of  clouds 
gathering  in  the  south  and  west.  Fre- 
quent flashes  of  lightning  shot  up  athwart 
the  heavens,  and  at  intervals  the  heavy 
roll  of  far-off  and  deep-toned  thunder  jarred 
the  doors  and  windows.  The  night  grew 
darker  and  hotter,  the  lightning  gleamed 
more  vividly,  and  the  booming  of  the  thun- 
der became  louder  and  nearer,  until  Na- 
than, who  was  afraid  of  storms,  thought  it 
proper  to  assemble  within  the  parlour  a 
number  of  men  who  were  about  tb^e  prem- 
ises. 

"  What  did  you  want  with  us  ?"  de- 
manded one  of  these  latter,  who  remained 
standing. 

"  I  wished,"  said  Nathan,  blinking  and 
letting  down  the  curtains,  "  to  give  you 
all  some  further  directions  before  I  part 
from  you." 

"  You've  already  told  us,  four  or  five 
times,  what  you  want  done,"  replied  the 
man,  who  had  spoken  before,  "  and  its 
growing  late.  Come,  tell  your  business, 
and  let  us  go  to  bed,  for  I'm  sleepy." 

"  Sit  down,  my  friend,  sit  down  and  make 
yourself  easy,"  returned  Nathan,  mildly, 
and  trembling  all  over  as  a  heavy  crash  of 
thunder  burst  through  the  air.  ;' Sit  down 
all  of  you,  for  I'm  going  to  set  out  the 
brandy ;  and,  as  good  friends  are  about  to 
separate,  we'll  make  a  night  of  it.  Gra- 
cious, that  was  a  sharp  flash.  I  believe 
we'll  have  a  shower  presently." 

"  A  shower,  indeed  !"  exclaimed  one  of 
the  men,  who  was  standing  at  the  door ; 
"  it  will  be  an  awful  storm.  Just  come  to 
the  door  and  see  what  terrible  black  clouds 
are  boiling  up  in  the  south.  Heavens ! 
the  whole  sky  is  on  fire  !" 

"  Come,"  said  Nathan,  to1  whom  these 
words  were  daggers,  "  I  must  shut  this 
door  or  you'll  get  frightened.  Some  folks 
are  afraid  of  thunder." 

"And  why  shouldn't  they  bel"  asked 
the  man  ;  ';  they  say  two  men  were  killed 
by  one  stroke  last  week  on  Haw  river ; 
and  I  saw  a  tree  in  old  Hackett's  yard  that 
was  shattered  all  to  pieces." 

"  For  my  part,"  said  another,  "  I  don't 
mind  common  storms,  but  this  one  to-night 
will  be  dreadful." 

Sheet  after  sheet  of  living  flame  now 
glared  through  the  lighted  room,  and  peal 
after  peal,  louder  than  the  explosion  of  a 
thousand  cannon,  shook  the  house  to  its 
foundations.     More  candles  were  lighted, 


ALAMANCE. 


125 


the  curtains  were  drawn  closer,  and  still 
the  fiery  arrows  of  the  clouds  gleamed 
and  sparkled  in  the  room,  blinding  with  in- 
tense brightness  the  eyes,  and  blanching 
the  cheeks  of  its  terrified  tenants,  while 
the  rattling  thunderbolts  seemed  to  burst 
above  and  around  them,  with  a  crash  as  if 
heaven  and  earth  were  coming  together. 
The  wind  was  now  terrific,  prostrating,  in 
its  resistless  might,  the  firmest  oaks  like 
rotten  stubble,  and  the  rain  came  down  in 
floods.  The  wife' and  children  of  Glutson, 
aroused  and  alarmed  by  the  commotion  in 
the  elements,  came  running  into  the  room 
— the  females,  frantic  with  fear,  clustering 
round  the  head  of  the  family,  as  if  looking 
to  him  for  protection. 

At  this  instant  there  was  heard,  above 
the  din  of  the  storm,  a  voice  crying,  "Na- 
than Glutson  !  Nathan  Glutson  !  your  time 
has  come  at  last." 

"My  innocent  children,  my  dear  wife," 
exclaimed  Nathan,  "pray  for  me! -pray 
for  me  !  pray  for  us  all !  _  Oh.  if  this  night 
was  once  over  I  would'  live  a  different 
life  !" 

"  I  hear  that  promise,"  said  a  man  who 
came  in  unperceived  at  the  northern  door, 
and  was  followed  by  a  file  of  armed  men, 
all  in  masks.  "  Men,  guard  the  doors  and 
wisdows,"  said  the  leader,  "  and  see  that 
no  one  escapes.     Do  you  all  surrender  1'' 

"  To  whom,  may  I  respectfully  ask," 
said  Glutson,-  "  shall  we  have  that  pleas- 
ure V 

"  To  me,"  was  the  brief  response. 
."Well,  friend,  you  see  we  are  in  your 
power,"  answered  Nathan,  meekly,  "  and 
I  trust,  you'll  try  us  fairly." 

"  You  shall  have  justice,"  replied  the 
captain  of  the  armed  men.  "  Here,  lieu- 
tenant, tie  them  all — I  mean  all  the  men." 

This  order  was  promptly  executed,  no 
one  making  the  slightest  resistance,  and 
the  women  and  children  looking  on  in 
mute  astonishment  and  alarm. 

"  Now,"  said  the  captain,  "  we'll  pro- 
ceed to  business.     Nathan  Glutson  !" 

"  I  hear  you,  sir." 

"Nathan  Glutson,  I've  come  to  settle 
with  you  a  long  account." 

"  If  you  owe  me  any  thing,  friend,"  re- 
plied Glutson,  "  I  don't  know  it ;  and,  as 
for  myself,  I  don't  owe  a  dollar  in  the 
world." 

"You  are  mistaken,  sir,"  returned  the 
captain,  "  as  I  will  soon  show  you  by  the 
bill  and  vouchers." 

"  It's  very  likely,  friend ;  for  all  our  me- 
mories are  treacherous.  I'll  never  deny 
a  just  debt,  and  if  you'll  show  me  one  I'll 
pay  it  with  the  cash  down,  principal  and 
interest." 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  captain,  "here  is 
the  account,  and  I'll  read  it  to  you,  item 
by  item." 

"  Molly,  dear,"  said  Nathan  to  his  wife, 


"bring  me  my  spectacles,  and  bring  also 
a  pen  and  ink,  and  some  paper,  for  we 
may  need  them." 

"  Not  at  present,"  replied  the  captain  ; 
"  I  am  going  to  show  you  a  new  way  to 
write  receipts." 

"  Will  you  let  me  look  at  your  bill  V 
asked  Glutson,  his  wife  adjusting  his  spec- 
tacles for  him.  "  I  do  not  wish,  by  any 
means,  to  dispute  your  word,  but  I  make 
it  a  rule  always  to  examine  accounts  be- 
fore I  pay  them.  Men  can't  be  too  partic- 
ular about  such  things ;  and  sharp  looks 
save  long  suits." 

"  That's  a  fact,"  exclaimed  the  captain ; 
"but  the  keenest  of  us  sometimes  nod,  as 
you  will  see.  I'll  read  you  the  account, 
and  then  you  can  examine  it  at  your  leis- 
ure." 

"  Very  good,  my  friend,  you  can  pro- 
ceed in  your  own  way." 

"  Well,  here's  the  bill : 

'Nathan  Glutson 

To  Public  Justice,  Dr. 
For  assisting  Alan  Ross  to  carry  of 
Edith  Mayfield,  charged  •  39  lashes.' " 

•  "  You  are  jesting  with  me,  friend,"  said 
Nathan. 

"  I  never  was  more  in  earnest  in  my 
life,"  answered  the  captain,  "  and  I  would 
have  you  to  hold  your  peace  and  listen. 

'  To  negroes,  bonds,  many  cattle  and 
horses,  stolen  from  the  Whigs  at 
his  instigation,  and  for  his  benefit, 
charged,  a  full  restitution,  with  in- 
terest on  the  value,  and 

To  sundries,  such  as  being  a  thief,  a 
Tory,  and  a  general  nuisance, 
charged, 

To  persecuting  George  Warden, 
burning  his  fences  and  his  houses, 
and  destroying  his  property,  charg- 
ed, £1000  and 

To  procuring,  aiding  and  abetting  in 
various  murders,  burglaries,  and 
assassinations,  charged,  to  be 
hanged  by  the  neck  till  you  die. 

Sum  total :  to  receive  186  lashes,  restore 
all  your  stolen  effects,  with  interest  on 
their  value  from  the  time  of  taking,  to  pay 
down  £1000,  and  then  to  die  and  leave 
a  world  where  you  are  a  pest.' 

"  Now,  old  gripus,  here's  the  voucher. 
Here's  the  affidavits  of  Dick  Sikes  and  of 
Pete  Simmons,  all  regularly  taken.  Are 
you  ready  to  close  the  account  ?'? 

"  Let  me  speak  with  you  in  private," 
answered  Nathan,  and  the  two  withdrew 
into  another  room. 

They  had  been  gone  but  a  few  minutes 
when  the  captain  returned,  leading  his 
prisoner  by  the  collar,  and  exclaiming, 
"The  old  villain  as  good  as  confessed,  and 
tried  to  bribe  me.  Let  him  swing  instant- 
ly." 

The  family  of  Glutson  now  set  up  a 
piteous  lamentation,  begging  for  his  life, 


69  lashes. 


39  lashes. 


39  lashes. 


126 


ALAMANCE. 


and  offering-,  if  he  was  spared,  (o  make  him 
give  up  every  thing,  even  to  the  last  dollar 
which  he  had. 

"  We'll  give  him  fifteen  minutes  to  pre- 
pare," said  the  leader,  "  during  which  time 
we'll  despatch  some  other  business.  Tom 
Barton  and  Jesse  Woods,  I  wish  to  have 
a  word  with  you." 

"  Who  told  ypu  our  names  ?"  asked  the 
persons  called  at  the  same  time. 

"  No  matter  for  that.  I  know  you.  You, 
Tom,  are  charged  with  various  burglaries  ; 
and  among  them  a  most  heinous  one  at 
Ralph  Goyvell's.  You  are  charged  with 
an  attempt  to  kill  Esther  Bell,  with  being 
accessory  to  the  murder  of  Betsy  Deans, 
and  with  having  shot  at  that  good  man, 
Isaac  Holt.  There  are  a  hundred  charges 
against  you,  Jesse,  and  the  last  one  is,  that 
you  treacherously  shot  that  brave  man, 
Captain  Forbes,  while  he  was  fighting  for 
his  country,  at  Guilford  court-house.  Come, 
lieutenant,  fix  the  ropes." 

Prayers,  promises,  and  entreaties  were 
vain.  The  storm  having  somewhat  subsi- 
ded, the  two  Tories  were  led  out,  and  to 
the  limb  of  an  oak  immediately  before  the 
door  they  were  suspended,  side  by  side, 
and  left — their  struggling  bodies  being  oc- 
casionally revealed  by  the  fitful  flashes  of 
lightning,  and  filling  Glutson  and  his  friends 
with  horror. 

"  Now>  old  Jew,'-'  said  the  captain  to 
Nathan,  "  your  turn  comes  next,  and  time 
presses.  Are  you  ready  to  pay  up?  Why, 
man,  are  you  crazy  ?"  , 

Nathan,  standing  at  the  door  in  a  sort  of 
stupor,  with  his  ej'es  fixed  on  the  suspend- 
ed bodies  of  the  Tories  oscillating  to  and 
fro  in  the  wind,  like  pendulums,  replied, 
"  Yes,  my  friend,  ray  good  friend,  I'm  ready 
to  give  you  every  thing  I  have  in  the  world. 
Only  spare  my  life,  for  God's  sake ;  for 
these  poor  innocents'  sake,  spare  my  life ! 
I  am  not  ready  to  die  ;  I  want  time  to  re- 
pent of  all  my  sins." 

"  Time,"  answered  the  captain,  "  is  what 
you've  been  v*ery  sparing  of.  I  never  heard 
it  said  of  you  that  you  did  not  demand  pay- 
ment the  very  minute  your  debt  was  due." 

"  Yes ;  but,  friend,  you  may  do  good  by 
indulging  me,  for  I  swear  to  you  that  I 
will  do  whatever  you  want." 

"  And  so  have  your  debtors  sworn  often 
before.  The  poor  wretches  in  whom  your 
usurious  claws  were  fixed  have  begged, 
entreated,  and  prayed  for  a  little  indul- 
gence. They  have  pointed  to  their  weep- 
ing wives  and  children  crying  for  bread ; 
they  have  pointed  to  their  own  utter  ruin, 
and  shown  that  a  little,  just  a  little,  indul- 
gence would  save  them,  and  save,  also, 
your  debt.  To  these  entreaties,  you,  hard- 
hearted monster — you,  son  of  perdition, 
have  always  coolly  answered,  '  The  debt's 
due,  and  1  can't  help  your  misfortunes,  I 
must  have  my  money.'    So  I  now  say  to 


you,  the  debt's  due,  and,  what's  more, 
it's  just.  Recommend  your  soul  to  the 
mercy  of  God,  for  your  time's  up." 

So  saying,  the  captain  and  his  men  seized 
Nathan,  and,  while  he  was,  yet  screaming, 
and  his  family  clinging  to  him,  he  was 
swung  by  the  side  of  his  friends  on  the 
oak.  The  rope  was  so  fastened  that  the 
tension  round  the  neck  was  not  severe, 
and  the  wretch  suffered  the  agonies  of  a 
hundred  deaths.  He  was  finally  taken 
down  while  life  yet  remained,  and,  after 
some  difficulty,  was  restored  to  the  use  of 
his  faculties.  He  was,  however,  pale  as  a 
corpse,  and  weak  and  feeble  as  a  child,  and 
with  ready  alacrity  did  whatever  he  was 
requested.  He  brought  out  all  his  papers ; 
and  these  being  handed  by  the  captain  to 
one  of  his  assistants  for  his  inspection, 
the  latter  found  what  he  expected — the 
bonds  of  Warden,  with  receipts  from  Glut- 
son  for  nearly  the  whole  amount.  A  paper 
was  also  found,  in  which  there  was  a  re- 
lease, by  Glutson,  of  his  title  to  the  prop- 
erty of  Warden',  forfeited  by  the  terms  of  a 
mortgage ;  and  this  release  was  dated  on 
the  same  day  with  the  receipts,  and  five 
days  after  the  mortgage  became  due. 
Glutson  acknowledged  that  these  papers 
had  been  purloined  at  his  instigation,  and 
ordered  a  secret  cash-book  to  be  brought 
out,  that  it  might  be  seen  what  amount  of 
stolen  property  had  come  to  his  hands. 
The  soldiers  stared  at  each  other,  and  now 
felt  that  they  were  truly  in  a  den  of  iniquity. 

The  celebrated  book  was  produced — a 
book  that  was  long  kept  as  a  rare  curiosi- 
ty at  Alamance,  and  known  as  "  the  Dev- 
il's Leger."  Fragments  of  it  are  now  in 
the  author's  possession,  being  a  part  of  the 
papers  left  by  the  master ;  and  from  them 
it  appears  that  Glutson  kept  an  exact  ac- 
count of  his  dealings  with  the  Tories,  each 
of  which  was  known  and  mentioned  by 
some  fictitious  name.  A  few  extracts  will 
show  the  manner  in  which  the  entries  were 
made :  ' 

"  Paid  Long  Thorn  7  pounds  2,  for  five  horses 

imported  from -Babylon. 
Paid  King  Solomon  four  and  sixpence,  for  an 
assortment   of  leather,   sheep,   and    black- 
smith's tools,  imported  from  Nova  Scotia. 
Paid  Jupiter  Jehosiphat  1  pound  sterling,  for  his 

part  of  the  cargo  from  Constantinople. 
Paid  the  Pope  10  pounds  sterling,  ffir  two  ne- 
groes and  sundries,  imported  from  Botany 
Bay." 

The  captain  and  his  men,  beyond  meas- 
ure astonished,  and  even  amused  at  what 
they  found  in  the  book,  turned  oyer  the 
leaves  and  devoured  the  contents  with  their 
eyes  for  some  time,  nearly  forgetting  the 
object  of  their  visit.  After  they  had  suffi- 
ciently gratified  their  curiosity,  and  learned 
from  Nathan  the  persons  to  whom  the  nick- 
names were  applied,  the  places  indicated 
by  "  Babylon,"  "  Constantinople,"  &c,  and 


ALAMANCE. 


127 


that  imported  meant  stolen,  the  captain 
spoke  as  follows : 

"  My  friends,  the  night  is  far  spent,  and 
it's  time  to  finish  business  and  be  off.  Car- 
ry out  these  rascals,  strip  them,  and  tie 
each  one  to  a  tree  and  give  them  one  hun- 
dred and  eighty-six  lashes  a-piece.  While 
you  are  about  it,  the  leftenant  and  I  will 
attend  to  Nathan  and  his  book."  The  men 
prepared  to  do  as  they  were  bid ;  and  the 
captain  continued  to  his  lieutenant:  "Add 
up  the  items,  and  see  how  much  plunder, 
besides  the  negroes,  he' has  got." 

The  lieutenant  did  as  he  was  bid,  and 
answered,  "  Fifteen  hundred  pounds  ster- 
ling will  cover  the  amount." 

"  Count  it  out,  Nathan,"  said  the  captain ; 
"  it  shall  be  applied  to  the  benefit  of  the 
needy  Whig  families."  Glutson  counted 
out  the  sum  in  gold,  and  the  captain  pro- 
ceeded :  "  Now  for  Warden's  negroes ; 
where  are  they1?" 

"  They  are  all  in  an  outhouse,"  answer- 
ed Glutson,  "  except  one,  who  died  from 
ill-usage."  At  this  the  captain,  his  lieu- 
tenant, and  Glutson,  proceeded  to  the  house 
alluded  to,  and  releasing  the  slaves,  these 
latter  were  most  extravagantly  delighted, 
and  eagerly  enquired  where  they  would 
find  their  master's  family. 

"I'll  tell  you  presently,"  replied  the 
captain ;  "  and  do  you  wait  in  the  yard 
here  till  I  call  you." 

While  these  things  were  going  on,  the 
ears  of  Nathan  were  saluted  by  the  most 
dismal  groans  from  the  place  where  his 
friends  were  suffering ;  and  he  was  in  such 
a  constant  terror  that  he  trembled  all  over, 
and  could  scarcely  speak.  At  every  stroke 
— and  they  were  sturdy  ones — he  started 
and  looked  as  if  his  own  back  were  smart- 
ing under  the  lash.  After  suffering  mar- 
tyrdom in  this  way,  he  was  led  out,  and 
the  captain  and  his  lieutenant  marked  upon 
him,  between  his  neck  and  heels,  one  hun- 
dred and  eighty-six  tokens  of  remembrance. 
After  this,  a  solution  of  salt  was  thrown 
over  the  Tories ;  and  the  cap'tain,  after  a 
considerable  effort  at  calculation,  remark- 
ed :  "  I've  been  trying  to  make  out  the 
compound  interest  on  one  hundred  and 
eighty-six  for  three  years,  but  figures  were 
always  a  botheration  to  me.  Well  make 
it  an  even  two  hundred.  One  hundred  and 
eighty-six  from  two  hundred  leaves  how 
many]" 

"  Fourteen,"  said  one. 

"  Let  it.  be  fifteen  for  good  measure  and 
a  round  tafly." 

The  fifteen  were  given,  and  the  captain 
again  spdke :  "  Here,  Mr.  Secretary,  I  want 
you  to  do  some  writing.  Give  Nathan 
Glutson  a  receipt,  and  see  that  you  write 
it  plain,  and  so  it  won't  wear  out,  for  he  is 
a  tricky  dog." 

The  injunction  was  obeyed  with  right 
good  will,  and  the  traces  of  the  bold  hand 


of  the  scribe  would  have  been  legible  for 
half  a  century  had  Nathan  lived  so  long. 
After  these  settlements  were  effected,  the 
Tories  were  dressed  and  brought  into  the 
house,  where  the  captain,  changing  his  as- 
sumed voice  and  manner,  thus  harangued 
them  :  "  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  the  per- 
formance is  concluded  for  the  night,  and 
all  accounts  squared  up  to  date.  It  has 
been,  my  sinful  friends,  a  painful  job  to  all 
parties  concerned,  and  now  that  it's  all 
over,  I  would,  as  old  Proximus  says,  make 
a  few  moral  observations.  Firstly,  then, 
you  are  informed  that  your  credit  is  no 
longer  good,  and  in  all  our  dealings  here- 
after I  must  have  the  cash  up — that  is  to 
say,  your  uncle  is  now  about,  perfectly 
in  town,  with  his  pocket  full  of  rocks  ;  and 
if  you  engage  in  any  new  rascalities  you 
may  expect  to  smoke  for  it  immediately, 
if  not  sooner.  Secondly,  I  wish  you  to 
remember  Captain  Bolus  to  all  your  friends 
and  acquaintances,  and  especially  to  show 
them  my  letters,  and  let  them  know  what 
I'll  do  for  them  whenever  I  find  them. 
Thirdly,  you  now  see  the  folly  of  your 
ways,  and  how  hard  it  is,  as  Xhe  Scriptur 
says,  to  kick  agin  the  pricks.  You've 
brought  disgrace  on  yourselves  and  on 
your  families ;  you've  made  yourselves 
hated,  betrayed  your  country,  and  played 
the  very  devil  ginerally.  You  see  and  feel 
how  you've  got  part  of  your  reward  ;  and 
just  as  sure  as  your  backs  are  now  smart- 
in,  if  you  don't  repent  your  souls  will 
scorch  in  hell-fire  to  all  eternity.  And, 
fourthly — and  this  is  the  last  and  main 
pint,  and  the  cream  of  the  whole  matter — 
I  give  you  all  five  days  to  settle  up  your 
accounts  and  be  off,  bag  and  baggage, 
scrip  and  scrippage,  as  old  Proximus  has 
it ;  and  if  after  that  time  any  of  you  are 
caught  at  Alamance,  you  will  swing  like 
them  poor  critturs  at  the  door.  This  is 
said  by  Captain  Bolus,  sometimes  called 
the  Devil,  and  sometimes  the  Flyin  Sar- 
pint,  who  sees  all  round  him,  and  who 
never  breaks  his  word.  And  now,  my 
Christin  friends,  let  us  leave  this  cursed 
abode  of  sin  and  misery." 

We  will  here  remark  that  Nathan  Glut- 
son,  who  acquitted  George  Warden  of  any 
part  in  these  proceedings,  soon  visited  that 
gentleman,  gave  him  a  receipt  in  full  for 
the  small  balance  of  his  debt,  and  restored 
to  him  his  lands.  After  this,  Nathan  and 
his  friends  disappeared ;  the  Whigs,  to  get 
rid  of  him,  giving  him  the  full  value  of  his 
real  estate,  and  burning  his  house  to  the 
arround. 


CHAPTER  LI. 

A  SAD  AND  SWEET  REMEMBRANCE. 

As  congeniality  of  feeling  produces  inti- 
macy and .  friendship,  the  party  at  Mrs. 


128 


ALAMANCE 


Mavfield's  soon  formed  themselves  into 
trios.  Mrs.  Mayfield,  Mrs.  Warden,  and 
Nannie  Scott  discussed  household  mat- 
ters and  neighbourhood  and  family  affairs  ; 
George  Warden,  Edith  Mayfield,  and  Hec- 
tor M'Bride  discoursed  gravely  of  politics 
and  morals,  life  and  death,  time  and  eter- 
nity ;  while  Lucy  Neal,  Kate  Warden,  and 
Donald  M'Leod  fished,  visited,  and  wander- 
ed over  the  fields,  gardens,  and  meadows, 
talking  of  love,  romance,  and  marriages, 
poetry  and  novels.  Kate  and  Lucy  be- 
came, in  fact,  extremely  intimate,  were 
generally  favorites,  and  had  some  rare 
frolics  at'  the  expense  of  the  master  and 
others,  doing,  at  all  times,  pretty  much 
what  they  pleased.  When  the  Warden 
estates  were  restored  to  the  rightful  own- 
ers, and  while  preparations  for  the  recep- 
tion of  the  family  were  going  on,  the  two 
girls  went  to  visit  the  old  place,  and  see 
how  things  were  progressing.  Kate  did  not 
fail  to  point  out  to  Lucy  every  beautiful 
scene,  and.  after  they  had  rambled  about 
till  they  were  tired,  they  went  into  the 
garden.  "  Oh,  Lucy,  dear,  run  here  !"  ex- 
claimed Kate,  who  had  separated  from  her 
companion  ;  "  run  here,  and  see  what  a 
beautiful  sight !"  Lucy  did  run,  wonder- 
ing what  had  so  excited  her  friend,  who 
continued,  as  she  saw  Lucy  coming,  "Here 
is  the  name  of  Edith  Mayfield,  just  as  dis- 
tinct as  it  was  when  planted  by  brother 
Henry.  He  planted  these  carnations  a  long 
time  ago,  and  just  see  how  ihey  are  still 
flourishing,  and  all  in  bloom  !" 

"  It  is  a  sweet  sight,  indeed,"  said  Lucy, 
"  and  I  admire  the  fancy  very  much.  How 
did  your  brother  come  to  think  of  it  V 

"  There  is  a  romance  connected  with 
it,"  answered  Kate — "  a  sad  and  pleasant 
story,  and  I  have  half  a  mind  to  tell  it  to 
you." 

"Please  do,"  Lucy  cried,  seating  her- 
self on  the  grass  by  her  friend :  "  please 
tell  it,  for  I  like  to  hear  a  romance  of  all 
things." 

"  I'm  a  poor  hand  to  tell  a  story,"  re- 
turned Kate,  "  and  always  do  it  very  sim- 
ply ;  and  yet  father  never  gets  tired  of  hear- 
ing me  talk,  and  calls  me  his  little  ro- 
mancer. Oh,  how  happy  we  used  to  be 
before  the  troubles  got  to  be  so  bad  !  I 
remember  every  thing  as  if  it  had  hap- 
pened yesterday,  and  I  almost  think  I  hear 
father  calling  on  me  to  tell  him  some  tale 
of  love  and  romance,  and  trials  of  the  old 
times  that  are  gone.  There  sat  old  mother 
Demijohn  in  the  great  arm-chair  in  the 
corner,  with  her  high,  stiff  cap  and  her. 
short  pipe,  puffing  away,  and  looking  so 
kind  and  pleasing  at  us  all ;  by  her  side, 
on  a  low  rocking-chair,  was  mother;  busy, ! 
with  her  maid,  at  work,  and  every  now , 
and  then  turning  to  father;  old  Ben,  whoj 
then  remained  in  the  house,  nodded  away  | 
in  the  other  corner,  occasionally  opening 


and  rubbing  his  eyes,  and  staring  as  know- 
ingly as  if  he  had  heard  and  understood 
every  word ;  father  has  his  arm  around 
me,  and  little  Wash  sits  on  his  stool  at  my 
feet,  with  his  elbows  in  my  lap,  and  gazing 
earnestly  into  my  face,  and  believing  and 
wondering  at  all  I  say.  Those  times  will 
never  come  back,  for  one,  the  dearest  and 
best  of  us  all,  is  gone!  Poor  little  Wash, 
my  heart  aches  when  I  think  of  him  !" 

"  Dear  Kate,"  said  Lucy,  shedding  tears 
from  sympathy,  "  you've  told  a  story  be- 
fore you  began.  Come,  dry  your  tears,  my 
sweet  child,  and  tell  me  about  the  flowers. 
Your  next  tale  will  not  be  so  sad,  'I 
hope." 

"You  must  know,  then,"  Kate  com- 
menced, "  that  from  a  child  brother  loved 

Edith What's  the  matter,  Lucy  \  did  you 

see  a  snake  V 

"I  thought  so,"  answered  Lucy;  "but 
it  was  only  that  crooked  stick.  How  it 
did  frighten  me !" 

"  I  despise  snakes,"  said  Kate,  "  the 
great,  ugly  creatures  !  What  a  world  this 
would  be  if  there  were  no  serpents,  and 
how  happy  we  could  be  among  the  flow- 
er's !  As  it  is,  we  can't  go  into  the  meadow 
or  the  garden  without  being  in  terror  of 
them  ;  for  the  sly,  deceitful  things  are  al- 
ways creeping  about  in  the  most  beautiful 
places.  But,  as  I  was  going  to  say,  brother 
Henry  loved  Edith  Mayfield  from  a  child, 

and  she  was  attached  to  him Dear  Lucy, 

are  you  sick  ?  We  had  better  get  off  this 
damp  ground  and  go  into  the  house,  for 
you  look  very  pale." 

"  I  am  not  unwell,"  replied  Lucy ;  "  I 
have  not  yet  got  over  my  fright.  Please 
go  on." 

"  I  was  about  to  tell  you  that  brother 
Henry  was  not  like  other  boys ;  he  took 
little  interest  in  their  plays  and  pleasures, 
and,  as  1  have  heard  the  master  say,  his 
soul  seemed  to  live  in  a  different  world — 
a  world  of  his  own,  all  beautiful  and  flow- 
ery as  this  garden,  and  where  there  were 
no  snakes,  toads,  or  scorpions,  or  reptiles 
of  any  sort.  There  was  no  one  like  him 
but  Edith  Mayfield,  and  you  might  see 
that  she  was  from  her  very  looks.  Her 
eyes,  as  M'Bride  says,  look  like  the  win- 
dows of  Paradise,  for  the  heaven"  of  her 
soul  is  shining  through  them.  Brother's 
and  Edith's  hearts  grew  together  before 
they  knew  it,  and  their  souls  were  wedded 
by  God  himself,  so  that,  if  they  do  not  live 
together  here,  I  do  believe  they  will  be  in- 
separable companions  in  heaven.  Lucy, 
you  must  be  sick." 

"  Indeed,"  said  she,  "I  have  a  palpitation 
at  the  heart,  and  I  am  in  a  sort  of  tremor 
all  over ;  but  it  is  all  caused  by  my  alarm. 
Never  mind  me,  but  finish  the  tale,  for  it  is 
very  interesting." 

"Where  did  I  leave  off?  Oh,  I  remem- 
ber now.    As  they  grew  up,  Edith's  father, 


ALAMANCE 


129 


who  was  a  cold-hearted,  worldly  man,  ob- 
jected to  her  being  so  much  with  brother. 
He  chided  her  about  her  intimacy  with 
him— told  her  he  was  a  visionary,  and 
made  her  act  in  such  a  way  as  caused 
brother  to  believe  she  was  not  what  he 
once  thought  her.  It  was  only  in  appear- 
ance that  she  disliked  him  ;  but  he  did  not 
know  it,  and  as  she  was  very  dutiful,  he 
never  could  find  out  what  her  feelings 
were.  She  returned  all  his  letters  and  po- 
etry— How  you  start ! — even  quit  school, 
and  would  not  let  him  see  her  when  he 
visited  at  her  father's.  He  thought  she 
Avas  in  love  with  Ross — you  have  heard  of 
him — and  he  resolved  to  go  to  the  wars, 
young  as  he  was.  Just  before  he  went,  he 
made  a  great  speech  at  the  exhibition  at 
Alamance  school-house,  and  every  body  ap- 
plauded it.  Edith  was  so  pleased  that  she 
could  not  help  showing  it,  and  she  and 
Henry  had  some  very  kind  conversation. 
That  wasthe  last  time  he  saw  her.  When 
he  came  home  he  told  me  all  about  it,  and 
I  said  to  him  that  I  knew  that  Edith  loved 
him,  and  always  would.  '  A  woman's 
smiles  are  like  sunshine  in  April,'  he  an- 
swered, and  he  would  not  believe  but  what 
•  her  kindness  was  the  result  of  a  sudden 
whim.  As  mother  was  then  gardening, 
brother  Henry  wrote  Edith's  name  on  this 
bed,  and,  sowing  it  with  carnation-seed, 
he  laughed  and  said,  '  Now,  sister  Kate, 
I'm  going  away,  and  you'll  see  that  Edith's 
love  will  be  like  this  name :  no  trace  of 
either  will  be  left  when  I  return !'  He  went 
off,  and  the  carnations  came  up  and  bloom- 
ed most  beautifully.  The  first  year  I  show- 
ed them  to  Edith,  and  she  laughed  and  said 
nothing ;  the  next  spring  she  was  anxious 
to  see  if  the  flowers  still  remained;  the 
next  she  looked  at  them  sadly,  and  carried 
some  away ;  the  next  she  visited  them 
every  week,  and  sat  by  them  and  wept  for 
hours  at  a  time.  You  see  they  are  still 
flourishing,  though  the  garden  has  been 
long  neglected,  and  every  letter  of  the 
name  is  perfect.  It's  a  happy  omen.  Edith 
has  gone  through  many  trials,  and  has  at 
last  got  home  safe,  and  still  loves  Henry. 
I  know  he  loves  her,  and  as  soon  as  he 
hears  that  she  is  living,  and  at  home,  he 
will  come  on  the  wings  of  the  wind.  I 
saw  him  just  before  the  battle  of  Guilford 
Court  House,  and  he  gave  me  some  little 
mementoes  of  Edith,  and  told  me,  if  he 
was  killed,  to  bury  them  with  him.  All 
things  will  come  right  at  last,  and  turn  outi 
happy."  .    , 

"  They  do  not  always,"  answered  Lucy ; 
"as,  for  instance,  little  Wash.  Was  he 
like  Henry  V 

"  Very  much,  only  stouter,  and  not  so 
intellectual,  though  he  was  very  smart. 
Poor  little  Wash !  he  left  us  in  gloomy 
times,  and  is  not  here  to  see  our  happi- 
ness." 

I 


"  I'll  tell  him  of  it  all,"  said  Lucy,  with  a 
sad,  abstracted  manner. 

"Tell  little  Wash!"  exclaimed  Kate, 
with  astonishment ;."  why,  he  was  buried 
in  the  old  grave-yard  at'Alamance-church 
long  ago.  I  saw,  myself,  the  cold  clods  fall 
upon  his  coffin,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that 
I  could  hear  him  calling  to  me  and  telling 
me  not  to  let  them  leave  him  there  by 
himself  in  the  dark,  damp  ground.  But 
only  his  body 'is  there,  for  his  spirit  is  now 
happy  in  heaven." 

"  And  there,"  replied  Lucy,  her  tears 
falling  like  rain,  "  shall  1  meet  him  soon." 

Kate  looked  inquiringly  at  her,  and,  with- 
out knowing  the  cause  of  her  strange  words, 
wept  also,  and  locked  herself  in  the  em- 
braces of  her  friend.  "  We've  had  a  ro- 
mance, sure  enough,"  at  length  spoke  Kate, 
"  and,  like  father,  you've  paid  me  with  your 
tears.  ■  Is  it  not  time  to  return1?" 

"  I  think  it  is,"  said  Lucy,  "  and,  indeed, 
I  feel  as  if  I  were  going  to  be  sick.  I 
wish  I  was  at  my  home  in  the  mountains." 

"  That's  unkind,  dear  Lucy,"  returned 
Kate,  "  though  its  natural  to  be  sad  when 
we  first  leave  home.  You'll  soon  get  used 
to  it,  and  be  happy  with  us.  I  almost  wish 
you  were  a  little  sick,  that  I  might  have 
the  pleasure  of  being  your  nurse,  and  you'd 
find  me  an  excellent  one." 


CHAPTER  LII. 

THE    MASTER    BEGINS    TO    MAKE    A    STRANGK 
DISCOVERY. 

"  I  have  told  you  I  should  start  to-mor- 
row," said  Lucy  Neal,  who  was  alone  with 
the  master. 

"  And  I  have  told  you,"  he  retorted, "  that 
I  cannot  be  a  shuttlecock  for  the  women, 
to  be  forever  knocked  about  by  them  ac- 
cording as  whim  or  fancy  strikes  them. 
Your  father  does  not  expect-you  so  soon, 
the  roads  are  yet  dangerous,  and  you  are 
among  your  friends.  You  must  listen  to 
reason." 

"  I  do  not  wish  you  to  trouble  yourself 
on  my  account,"  the  girl  answered ;  "  I 
thought  it  my  duty  to  inform  you  of  my 
intentions.  I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for 
your  former  kindness,  and  now  thank  you 
in  my  own  and  my  father's  name.  Aunt 
Jennie  and  I  can  find  the  way,  for  I  ob- 
served the  road  attentively." 

The  master,  touched  more  by  her  man- 
ner than  by  what  she  said,  felt  himself 
strangely  affected,  and,  apologizing  for  his 
warmth,  told  Lucy  he  would  go  with  her 
to  the  ends  of  the  earth.  Her  sudden  de- 
termination and  her  deep  dejection  aston- 
ished the  people  with  whom  she  was  stay- 
ing, and  none  more,  than  Edith  Mayfield. 
That  lady,  suspecting  the  state  of  Lucy's 
feelings,  and  having  determined  to  promote 
her  wishes,  studiously  avoided  any  allusion 


130 


ALAMANCE 


to  her  own  attachment  for  Henry  Warden. 
She  believed,  however,  that  Lucy  had  heard 
of  it;  and  when  she  heard  Kate  Warden 
tell  her  mother  of  what  took  place  in  the 
garden,  she  saw',  or  thought  she  saw,  and 
so  did  Mrs.  Warden,  the  cause  of  Lucy's 
unhappiness.  Edith,  in  the  boundless 
goodness  of  her  heart,  nearly  resolved  to 
make  a  confident  of  her  mountain  friend, 
and  renounce  in  her  favour  all  pretensions 
to  the  heart  of  Major  Warden.  She  con- 
sidered, however,  that  he  might  not  agree 
to  this  arrangement,  and,  for  this  and  other 
reasons,  she  held  her  peace.  She  did, 
nevertheless,  as  did  also  Kate  and  the 
other  ladies,  use  every  exertion  to  prolong 
the  stay  of  Lucy  ;  but  all  their  arguments 
and  entreaties  failed  to  alter  her  purpose. 
It  was  then  settled  that  the  master  and 
black  Ben  should  accompany  her  and  her 
faithful  old  female  servant,  and  so  they  all 
set  about  making  preparations.  Every 
one,  old  and  young,  male  and  female,  had 
some  token  to  present,  and  old  Ben  found 
that  his  horse  would  have  a  heavy  burden 
indeed.  When  the  parting  came,  all  wept 
aloud  but  Lucy,  whose  eyes  were  suffused 
with  tears,  and  who,  with  a  voice  that 
melted  into  the  soul  of  every  hearer,  spoke. 
a  few  farewell  words  to  each.  She  was 
cordially  invited  to  return  again ;  and  when 
Edith  told  her  that  she  and  Kate  would 
come  after  her  in  the  summer,  she  replied, 
with  a  look  and  voice  that  seemed  not  of 
earth,  "  I  shall  be  gone,  sister,  like  last 
year's  flowers.  Still,  till  my  last  breath,  I 
shall  remember  you  all."  So  saying  she 
and  her  escort  took  the  road,  and  were 
soon  beyond  the  limits  of  Alamance. 

"  Mr.  M' Bride,  can  one  be  saved  without 
being  a  member  of  any  church  V  asked 
Lucy. 

"  I  think  it  possible,"  answered  the  mas- 
ter ;  "  but  it  is  advisable  to  join.  Why  do 
you  ask  such  a  question  ?  Are  you  a 
member  ?" 

Lucy. — "  No,  sir ;  but  I  have  often  thought 
of  such  things.    What  is  religion  1" 

The  Master. — "  That  is  a  question  easier 
to  ask  than  answer.  Men  have  disputed 
and  fought  about  it,  and  will,  I  apprehend, 
continue  to  dispute  and  fight  about  it,  with- 
out ever  coming  to  any  conclusion.  For 
my  own  part,  while  I  allow  every  one  the 
free  enjoyment  of  his  opinions,  I  have  my 
own  peculiar  ones." 

Lucy. — "  So  have  I  mine ;  and  if  you  will 
not  laugh  at  my  simplicity,  I'll  tell  you 
what  they  are.  I  have  never  harboured 
ill-will,  nor  wished  harm  to  a  living  thing  : 
I  have  always  obeyed  my  parents  in  all 
things,  and  preferred  the  good  of  others  to 
my  own :  I  have  envied  nobody,  hated  no 
one,  and  slandered  no  one  :  I  have  wished 
to  see  all  the  world  happy,  and  never  de- 
sired a  forbid"den  thing:  1  have  had  an 
humble  opinion  of  myself,  and  have  looked 


up  to  God  as  my  father  and  as  one  who 
constantly  saw  my  heart — which  prays 
daily  to  Him.  Do  I  stand  any  chance  of 
getting  to  heaven  j" 

The  Master. — "  By  my  soul,  Lucy,  more 
than  half  the  Christian  world  would  do  well 
to  take  your  chances  for  their  own.  Your 
notions,  in  my  judgement,  are  correct ;  but 
I  would  not  have  you  to  be  overconfident 
of  salvation.  This  vain  and  blind  confi- 
dence is  the  cause  of  perdition  to  many  a 
bigoted  soul,  for  it  causes  them  to  lose 
sight  of  the  very  first  element  of  religion. 
Who  knows  himself  to  be  a  sinner  has 
taken  the  first  and  greatest  step  towards 
heaven;  and  to  know  and  feel  this  daily, 
with  inward  humility  and  sorrow,  and  an 
humble  trust  in  the  mercy  of  God,  this  it 
is  to  be  religious.  Our  whole  life  is  a  state 
militant,  and  we  must  war  constantly  on 
our  own  desires." 

Lucy. — "But  are  there  not  some  who- 
become  so  holy  that  they  have  no  need  to 
carry  on  this  war,  and  are  positively  cer- 
tain of  being  saved]" 

The  Master. — "  That  some  are  positive- 
ly certain,  in  their  own  minds,  of  being 
saved,  is  undoubted  ;  that  any  are  holy  or 
righteous  is  in  the  very  teeth  of  Scripture. 
I  tell  you,  Lucy,  that  these  people  who  are 
righteous  in  their  own  eyes  are  certain  of 
perdition." 

Lucy. — "  They  never  seem  to  fear  it  for 
themselves,  and  they  denounce  it  very 
freely  to  others." 

The  Master. — "  So  they  do,  the  hypo- 
crites. God  and  the  world  judge  differ- 
ently. For  example,  I  will  state  a  case : 
Here  is  a  sober,  sedate,  and  severe-faced 
man,  who  eschews  lewd  company,  indulges 
in  no  pastimes,  never  utters  an  oath,  and 
attends  church  punctually  every  Sabbath — 
sitting  on  the  front  pews,  and  listening 
devoutly  to  the  services.  He  has  a  gay, 
wild  neighbour  who  loves  his  joke,  rarely 
goes  to  church,  is  not  ashamed  of  being 
found  with  any  one  who  may  visit  him, 
and  who  is  guilty  of  the  very  irreverent 
habit  of  laughing  when  he's  pleased.  The 
world  respects  the  former  as  a  pattern  of 
piety,  and  scowls  upon  the  latter  (more 
particularly  if  he's  independent  in  his  own 
opinions)  as  a  miscreant  on  the  road  to 
temporal  and  eternal  ruin.  And  yet,  the 
all-seeing  eye  of  Heaven  beholds  in  the 
heart  of  the  grave  Pharisee  the  putrid  con- 
tents of  a  whited  sepulchre,  and  in  that  of 
the  other  charity,  open  as  the  day — rever- 
ence to  God  and  good-will  to  men." 

Lucy.—"  Is  it  not  strange  that  the  very 
followers  of  our  meek  and  lowly  Saviour 
should,  generally,  be  so  much  like  those 
very  Pharisees  whom  he  denounced  as 
hypocrites  ?" 

The  Master. — "  It  is,  indeed  ;  but  so  it 
has  been  from  the  beginning.  The  de- 
scendants of  Moses  and  the  prophets  were 


ALAMANCE. 


131 


ready  to  crucify  Christ  for  blasphemy  to- 
wards those  prophets,  for  being  what  they 
had  predicted  he  would  be.  I  have  come 
to  the  melancholy  conclusion,  after  much 
observation  and  study  of  history,  that  to 
preserve  the  world's  esteem  we  must  wear 
the  cloak  of  hypocrisy.  The  first  idea  of 
all  persons,  savage  and  civilized — of  Jew 
and  Turk,  Pagan  and  Christian— is  intol- 
erance. The  world  demands  of  you  that 
you  should  think  and  act  in  all  things,  and 
especially  in  religious  matters,  as  it  acts 
and  thinks.  If  you  will  but  be  mindful  to 
do  this,  it  will  be  better  for  you  than  to 
have  a  heart  as  pure  as  the  unspotted 
snow.  The  world  judges  not  by  the  in- 
tentions of  the  heart,  nor  by  the  absolute 
good  or  evil  of  the  deed,  but  by  its  con- 
formity or  non-conformity  to  its  opinions. 
"When  Lady  Macduff  is  advised  to  fly,  to 
avoid  the  assassins  hired  by  Macbeth, 
Shakspeare  makes  her  say, 

'  Whither  should  I  fly  1 
I  have  done  no  harm.     But  I  remember  now 
I  am  in  this  earthy  world,  where,  to  do  harm, 
Is  often  laudable — to  do  good,  sometimes 
Accounted  dangerous  folly.     When,  then,  alas  ! 
Do  I  put  up  that  womanly  defence, 
To  say  I  have  done  no  harm  V 
That  defence  is  available  only  before  the 
bar  of  the  Judge  of  the  quick  and  dead. 
There  the  wretch,  through  whose  rags  the 
lance  of  earthly  justice  pierces,  will  stand 
proudly  erect,  his  innocence  guarding  him 
with  an  armour  impervious  even  to  the 
wrath  of  Omnipotence !" 

Lucy. — "  There's  nothing  I  dislike  so 
much  as  to  have  to  think  as  other  people 
io,  and  against  my  reason." 

The  Master. — "  No  ingenuous  and  un- 
corrupted  person  likes  it ;  but  to  this  '  com- 
plexion' we  must  all  'come  at  last.'  Let 
a  man  undertake  to  follow  the  dictates  of 
his  own  heart  and  judgement,  even  in  the 
smallest  matters,  and  he  will  suffer  for  it. 
Suppose,  for  instance,  it  was  customary, 
in  some  village,  for  all  the  male  inhabitants 
to  go  bareheaded  and  barefooted  once  a- 
week  to  the  public  square,  and  play  at 
marbles  and  leap-frog,  and  suppose  this 
custom  had  long  prevailed ;  if  a  new-comer 
should  happen  there  and  take  up  his  resi- 
dence, and  should  fail  at  the  appointed 
place  and  hour  to  make  his  appearance 
without  shoes  or  hat,  he  would  become 
directly  the  subject  of  general  conversa- 
tion :  from  this  he  would  get  to  be  unpop- 
ular ;  thence  a  suspicious  character,  and, 
finally,  all  sorts  of  monstrous  stories  would 
be  believed  in  regard  to  him,  and  he  would 
be  hated  and  dreaded  as  a  savage,  an  infi- 
del, a  pagan,  a  magician  possessed  of  a 
legion  of  devils.  You  may  laugh,  but  I 
tell  you  it  is  so.  I  have  seen  just  such 
things." 

Lucy. — "  You    must    forgive    me,   Mr. 
M*  Bride  ;  I  was  not  laughing  at  your  doc- 


trines, but  at  the  singular  illustration.  I 
believe  in  what  you  say,  yet  I  shall  live 
and  die  a  non-conformist,  a  sui  generis,  as 
I've  heard  you  say,  without  an  original  or  a 
copy.  I  am  like  nobody,  and  there  is  no 
communion  of  feeling  or  connection  by 
blood  between  me  and  a  living  thing." 

The  Master. — "  Lucy,  you  astonish  me  ; 
and  I  fear  my  speculations  have  turned 
your  brain.  What  do  you  mean  by  saying 
you  are  not  connected  with  a  living  thing  ? 
Your  parents  are  surely  still  living ;  at 
least  I  have  heard  nothing  of  their  deaths." 

Lucy. — "  My  parents  have  long  been 
dead,  Mr.  M'Bride.  Those  good  people  in 
the  mountains  are  only  my  foster-parents. 
My  father,  who  did  not  stand  high  with  the 
world,  and  my  mother  died  about  the  same 
time,  and  left  me,  then  a  little  girl,  alone 
in  the  world,  without  relations  and  per- 
fectly destitute.  Those  good  people  with 
whom  I  live  took  me  and  adopted  me  ;  and 
though  they  never  allude,  in  my  presence, 
to  my  early  history,  I  remember  it  as  well 
as  I  remember  the  events  of  yesterday. 
Thus,  as  I  told  you,  I  am  connected  by 
ties  of  blood  with  no  living  thing  that  I 
know  of,  and  the  world  does  not  own  me." 

The  Master. — "  There  you  wrong  the 
world,  Lucy,  and  permit  your  own  imagi- 
nation to  deceive  you.  You  are  uni- 
versally beloved ;  and,  to  show  you  that 
you  are  mistaken,  no  one  but  your  foster- 
parents  knows  your  history." 

Lucy. — "The  world  knows  by  instinct 
that  I  am  an  outcast,  a  child  of  wretched- 
ness ;  and  though  all  respect  me,  and  may 
even  be  fond  of  my  society,  no  one  would 
like  to  claim  kindred  with  me.  They  will 
associate  freely  with  me,  visit  me,  and 
invite  me  to  their  houses ;  they  pity  me 
and  speak  softly  and  kindly  to  me,  but  it  is 
as  to  one  who  is  not  of  them — one  whom 
they  would  be  ashamed  to  own  as  a  daugh- 
ter or  sister ;  one  who  between  whom  and 
them  there  are  not,  and  cannot  be,  those 
common  sympathies,  those  free  commu- 
nions, those  nearer  and  dearer  ties  that 
bind  families  together." 

The  Master.—"  This  is  all  the  offspring 
of  a  fancy  diseased  by  dwelling  too  much 
on  the  circumstances  attending  your  child- 
hood ;  but,  true  or  false,  you  have  one 
brother  who  this  day  is  proud  to  own  you 
as  his  sister.  Lucy,  I  am  not  a  lover; 
that  I  cannot  be.  Do  not,  therefore,  be 
uneasy  when  I  tell  you  that  from  our  first 
acquaintance  I  have  felt  a  strange  interest 
in  you,  and  that  you  only,  of  all  the  women 
on  earth,  are  really  dear  to  me.  I  say 
again  it  is  not  love — it  is  a  purer  and  holier 
feeling." 

Lucy. — "Then  we  two  will  form  a 
church  to  ourselves." 

The  Master. — "  You  speak  in  riddles  ;  if 
you  are  anxious  to  commune,  why  not  join 
some  church  at  once1?" 


132 


ALAMANCE. 


Lucy. — "I  have  told  you  my  reasons. 
The  world  shuns  me,  and  I  do  not  wish  to 
thrust  myself  into  its  societies.  Yet  I  do 
wish  to  be  saved,  and  I  do  hope  that  God. 
as  a  father,  will  receive  me,  and  that  in  his 
bright,  mansions  I  will  find  a  home." 

M'Bride. — "  Fear  not.  for  it  is  impossible 
that  hell  can  be  peopled  by  such  spirits  as 
yours.  But,  as  I  was  going  to  tell  you,  I 
too  am  desolate,  and  it  may  be  possible 
that,  in  truth,  I  will  find  a  relation  in  you. 
I  will  tell  over  to  you  my  history,  and  then 
you  can  judge  if  we  are  really  of  the  same 
kindred." 

-  "Oh!"  exclaimed  Lucy,  "how  have  I 
longed  to  find  some  good  and  beautiful 
brother,  sister,  or  cousin !  I  often  think 
of  the  situation  and  feelings  of  the  captive 
Hebrews,  as  they  sat  by  the  rivers  of  Baby- 
lon, weeping  and  remembering  their  own 
beloved  land.  Oh,  how  sad  it  is  to  be  in  a 
strange  country  and  among  a  strange  peo- 
ple, and  to  have  none  of  our  own  kindred, 
friends,  or  people  with  us !  Thus  it  has 
been  with  me  all  my  life ;  all  the  world 
is  a  Babylon  to  me,  and  among  its  fairest, 
scenes  T  sit  and  weep,  thinking  of  ,some 
imaginary  country,  some  beautiful,  green, 
and  'happy  land,  from  which  I  have  been 
taken,  and  where  I  have  sweet  friends  who 
are  like  me.  anxiously  waiting  for  my  re- 
turn among  them,  ready  to  embrace  and 
hug  me  to  their  hearts.  Where  is  that 
dear  land?"  continued  Lucy,  dropping  a 
tear ;  "  where  is  that  beautiful  being  who 
will  fold  me  in  her  arms  and  softly  whis- 
per '  dear  cousin'  in  my  ear?  Alas  !  I  will 
never  find  that  happy  home  !" 

The  girl,  being  overcome  by  her  emo- 
tion, was  unable  to  give  further  utterance 
to  her  thoughts,  and  the  master  for  a  while 
mingled  his  tears  in  silence  with  hers.  At 
length,  however,  M'Bride,  subduing  his 
feelings,  was  able  to  give  a  brief  account 
of  his  own  history,  at  the  conclusion  of 
which  Lucy  told  him  there  was  a  strange 
connection  between  them,  but  she  would 
leave  it  to  her  foster-father  to  reveal  it. 
She  was  taken,  in  the  mean  time,  with  a 
violent  cold,  and  during  the  balance  of  the 
journey  she  and  her  friend  conversed 
gravely  on  religious  subjects,  and  she  was 
much  edified  and  soothed  by  the  master's 
discourse. 


CHAPTER  LIII. 

Duke. — And  what's  her  history? 
Viola. — A  blank,  my  lord ;  she  never  told   her 
love. 

Twelfth  Night. 

The  master  did  not  fail  to  enquire  of 
Abraham  Neal  the  history  of  his  foster- 
daughter  ;  and  the  old  gentleman,  taking 
him  aside,  spoke  as  follows  :  "  Many  years 
ago,  there  came  to  reside  in  a  hut  on  my 


farm  a  man  of  my  name,  who  had  a  wife 
and  one  child,  then  a  little  girl.  As  the 
family  seemed  to  be  very  poor,  I  charged 
them  no  rent,  and  often  made  my  negroes 
assist  upon  their  little  farm.  The  man  was 
a  confirmed  drunkard — the  most  entire 
brute  I  ever  saw.  He  spent  every  thing 
for  liquor,  was  a  madman  when  drunk,  and 
often  tried  to  kill  his  wife,  his  child,  and 
himself.  The  poor  woman  soon  fell  ili,  and 
I  and  my  wife  remained  with  her  till  she 
died.  The  scene  was  an  awful  one,  and  I 
never  can  forget  it.  The  child  clung  to 
her  dead  mother,  begging  her  to  come  back 
to  her,  while  her  besotted  father  uttered 
the  most  horrid  oaths,  cursing  God  and  all 
his  creatures.  He  soon  went  off  himself, 
dying  from  the  effects  of  mania  a  potw, 
and,  my  wife  being  childless,  we  adopted 
the  girl,  and  have  loved  her  as  if  she  were 
our  own  offspring.  She  is  my  heir,  and,  I 
trust,  if  she  yet  remembers,  she  will  soon 
forget  her  origin." 

"  Can  you  tell  me  the  Christian  names 
of  the  father  and  mother,"  asked  M'Bride, 
"  and  the  place  of  their  former  residence  V 

"  His  name  was  Frank — her's  Rotha, 
and  she  said  she  was  from  Philadelphia, 
which  I  believed,  for  she  was  a  lady  of  ed- 
ucation and  rare  endowments." 

"  Oh,  my  prophetic  heart !"  exclaimed 
the  master;  "  I  knew  it,  I  knew  it!" 

"Knew  what,  my  friend1?"  enquired  the 
astonished  Neal. 

"  Excuse  me,"  answered  M'Bride,  "  but 
even  at  this  late  date  my  feelings  over- 
come me.  That  lady,  sir,  was  my  first, 
my  last,  and  my  only  love.  I  became  ac- 
quainted with  her  while  I  was  a  student  in 
Philadelphia,  and  a  mutual  attachment 
grew  up  between  us.  My  father  failed ; 
Frank  Neal,  who  was  a  student  of  medi- 
cine, was  reported  to  be  immensely  rich, 
married  Rotha,  and  turned  out  to  be  a  vag- 
abond and  impostor.  He  spent  all  her 
property,  went  off,  and  I  never  again  heard 
of  him  till  now." 

"  It's  a  strange  and  sad  story,"  said  Neal, 
"  and  when  I  am  more  at  leisure,  I  will  get 
you  to  relate  it  all  to  me  and  my  wife.  You 
must  excuse  me  now,  for  Lucy  is  quite 
unwell,  and  I  cannot  be  from  her  long.  I 
like  not  her  extreme  dejection,  and  fear 
something  is  preying  on  her  mind." 

"  She  well  recollects  her  origin,"  replied 
the  master,  "  and  alluded  to  it  on  the  road. 
I  cannot  imagine  what  has  brought  it  into 
her  mind,  for  she  was  very  happy  at  Ala- 
mance." 

"  She  has  taken  cold,"  returned  Neal, 
•'  and  I  fear  is  going  to  be  very  ill.  I  have 
noticed  that  persons  finely  strung  like  her 
have  a  foreboding  of  approaching  illness. 
We  must  go  and  cheer  her  up." 

"  It  will  be  a  work  of  love  with  me," 
said  the  master ;  and  with  what  success  he 
labored  will  be  seen  by  the  following  let- 


ALAMANCE. 


133 


ter,  sent  by  Ben  to  Henry  Warden,  and  in 
his  absence,  to  his  mother. 

Ml Bride's  Letter. 
"  My  Dear  Henry — As  you  will  have  heard, 
our  interesting  and  beautiful  friend,  Lucy  Neal, 
took  it  into  her  head  to  visit  Alamance,  and 
from  thence  I  conducted  her  home.  Strange 
'enough,  I  found  that  she  was  only  the  adopted 
daughter  of  our  former  host,  Abraham  Neal,  and 
the  real  daughter  of  my  beloved  Rotha  ;  but  the 
strangest  part  of  all  was  the  sudden  melan- 
choly illness  which  overtook  her  on  the  road. 
She  was  very  feeble  and  extremely  sad  when 
she  arrived  here,  and  spoke  seldom  to  any  one, 
preferring  to  be  alone.  As  long  as  she  was 
able  to  move  herself,  she  would  steal  off  to  the 
mountain  where  you  had  the  adventure  with 
her,  and  frequently  we  have  found  her  in  the 
Woodland  Bower,  poring  over  her  scrap-book, 
which  she  always  carried  about  her.  When 
she  became  too  weak  to  walk,  she  would  still 
insist  on  being  permitted  to  sit  in  the  door  in 
the  evenings,  and  would  watch,  in  deep  dejec- 
tion, the  sunlight  fading  on  the  distant  hill-top. 
One  day,  nothing  would  do  but  we  must  carry 
her  down  to  the  bower,  and,  while  I  was  left 
alone  with  her,  I  asked  her  why  she  carried 
that  book  about  with  her,  and  if  there  was  any 
inscription  in  it  she  prized  1  '  There  is  one,' 
she  answered,  '  but,  like  my  life,  'the  main  part 
of  it  is  a  blank.  I  never  understood  it  till  lately.' 
As  she  would  let  no  one  see  it,  I  know  not  to 
what  she  alluded.  I  would  observe,  also — for 
every  thing  connected  with  her  history  is  inter- 
esting— that  she  wore  constantly  about  her 
neck  a  certain  handkerchief,  and  from  these 
data,  I  feared,  my  dear  Henry,  that  the  poor 
girl's  heart  was  not  her  own.  I  thought  proper 
once  to  hint  to  her  that  if  even  you  had  wronged 
her,  I  would  see  her  righted.  '  For  God's 
sake,'  exclaimed  she,  '  never  let  such  a  suspi- 
cion cross  your  mind  ;  and  assure  him,  from 
me,  I  beseech  you,  that  I  fully  understand,  ap- 
preciate, and  approve  his  conduct.'  After  her 
lest  trip  to  the  bower  she  became  much  more 
cheerful,  but  sunk  rapidly.  To  gratify  her,  we 
placed  her  in  a  room  where  she  could  look  out 
on  the  mountain  alluded  to,  arid  see  also  her 
cherished  bower ;  and  the  best  medical  aid 
which  the  mountains  could  afford  was  in  at- 
tendance. She,  however,  declined  daily  and 
rapidly,  the  beauties  of  her  heart  and  mind 
coming  into  bolder  relief,  and  her  astonishing 
meekness,  gentleness,  and  gratitude  increasing 
hourly.  She  saw  clearly  that  her  end  was 
near,  and  so  boundless  was  the  goodness  of  her 
heart,  that  she  actually  begged  her  foster-pa- 
rents to  forgive  her  for  leaving  them  so  soon  ! 
She  over  and  over  made  them  say  they  were 
not  sorry  that  she  had  left  them  to  go  to  Ala- 
mance ;  and,  blaming  herself  for  having  been  so 
reserved  and  silent  when  she  first  returned,  she 
said  she  could  now  talk  to  them  on  every  sub- 
ject interesting  to  them  and  to  her.  And  so 
she  did,  chatting  away  with  lively  animation 
day  and  night,  except  when  occasionally  she 
enjoyed  a  quiet  slumber.  At  these  times,  and 
before  she  fell  asleep,  she  would  invariably  take 
an  affectionate  leave  of  us  all,  and  then  shake 
hands  again  when  she  awoke.  On  one  occa- 
sion she  desired  to  be  raised  in  bed,  that  she 


might  look  out  upon  the  mountains  ;  and,  after 
gazing  for  some  time  in  silence,  she  said,  with 
a  faint  smile,  'How  beautiful  does  Nature 
seem  ;  oh,  how  I  have  loved  it !  Now,  mother, 
cover  my  eyes,  and  let  me  sleep.'  We  took  an 
affectionate  leave  of  her  as  usual,  and,  casting 
on  us  all  a  look  of  the  most  tender  interest,  she 
closed  her  eyes.  As  she  seemed  to  slumber 
unusually  long,  we  at  last  removed  the  hand- 
kerchief from  her  face,  and  found  that  she  was 
indeed  asleep  ! — after  life's  brief  and  fitful  fever, 
at  rest  forever !  Her  eyes  were  closed,  her 
hands  crossed  upon  her  breast,  and  her  face — 
oh,  how  natural  and  beautiful  did  it  seem  in 
death  !  A  smile,  a  sweet,  gracious  smile  was 
still  lingering  on  her  pale,  fair  features,  and  it 
was  only  when  we  touched  her  cold,  earthy 
flesh  we  could  realize  that  her  spirit  had  gone 
back  to  Heaven,  as  pure  and  spotless  as  when 
first  breathed  by  the  breath  of  the  Almighty  into 
its  beautiful  tabernacle  of  clay.  It  had  found 
at  last  its  native  country ;  it  had  gone  back  to 
that  happy  land  from  which  it  had  been  briefly 
exiled,  and  her  return  was  greeted,  by  troops  of 
her  angelic  kindred,  by  one  of  the  sweetest  an- 
thems ever  heard  in  heaven  !  She  had  given 
particular  instructions  about  her  burial,  request- 
ing to  be  laid  in  her  woodland  bower,  under  the 
tree  on  which  her  name  was  carved,  and  that 
no  monument  be  erected  to  her  memory.  She 
had  also  desired  me  to  bury  with  her  the  book 
and  handkerchief  to  which  I  have  alluded,  say- 
ing, '  These  have  been  my  dearest  friends,  my 
sweetest  companions.  They  have  talked  to 
me  of  home,  of  kindred,  of  love ;  they  only  have 
connected  me  with  earth,  and  as  they  have  ever 
been  with  me  while  living,  let  them  lie  on  my 
bosom  in  the  grave.'  In  all  things  were  her 
wishes  obeyed ;  and  next  day,  while  the  dew 
was  yet  glittering  on  the  tender  grass,  when 
flowers  were  wearing  their  richest  bloom,  and 
giving  out  their  sweetest  odour,  and  birds  were 
singing  their  gayest  songs,  we  laid  her  in  the 
earth  in  her  rustic  bower,  and  there  we  sat 
down  and  wept.  It  was  hard  for  us  to  think 
she  was  not  still  among  us,  while  all  Nature 
seemed  to  be  so  bright  and  merry  ;  and  oh,  how 
sore  were  our  hearts  when  we  returned  to  the 
empty  and  silent  house,  and  remembered  that 
we  had  left  her  in  the  woods,  deep  buried  for- 
ever in  the  dark,  cold,  cold  earth !  Her  soft 
voice  still  seems  ringing  in  our  ears— =-her  sweet 
smile  still  irradiates  our  hearts  at  times ;  but 
while  we  are  listening  for  a  light  and  airy  step, 
and  some  one  unconsciously  enquires  for  the 
cause  of  her  long  absence,  we  involuntarily 
turn  our  eyes  to  the  bower,  and  there  see  the 
sad,  fresh  mound  of  earth,  which  tells  its  own 
and  most  melancholy  tale  !  Our  good  friends, 
the  Neals,  are  heart-broken,  and  I  consider  it 
to  be  my  sacred  duty  to  remain  with  and  com- 
fort them  all  I  can.  Though  I  am  unutterably 
sad  myself,  my  sympathies  are  strongly  awak- 
ened in  behalf  of  these  good  old  people,  the 
light  of  whose  hearts  has  fled,  and  whose  gray 
hairs  are  rapidly  sinking  with  sorrow  to  the 
grave.  You  will  please,  therefore,  give  my 
kindest  regards  to  all  at  Alamance,  and  look  for 
me  in  the  autumn. 

.  "  My  heart   is   too  heavy  to  write   another 
line,  and  so,  my  friend,  farewell ! 

"  Hector  M'Bride." 


134 


ALAMANCE. 


Mrs.  Warden,  her  son  being  absent, 
opened  this  letter,  according  to  the  direc- 
tion on  the  back,  and  the  whole  communi- 
ty of  Alamance  went  into  mourning  for 
Lucy  Neal.  There  was  not  an  eye  but 
paid  its  tribute  of  tears — not  a  heart  that 
was  not  shrouded  in  black — not  a  tongue 
but  often  ejaculated,  "  Alas !  poor  Lucy 
Neal !"  Some  charming  verses  were  writ- 
ten on  her  death,  and  set  to  a  tune  so  pa- 
thetic, so  sweet,  simple,  and  sad,  that  the 
song  soon  attained  a  wide  popularity,  and 
has  been  handed  down  to  our  own  times 
by  the  negroes,  among  whom  alone  the 
soul  of  sweet  melody  yet  lingers. 


CHAPTER  LIV. 

"  There  is,  sure,  another  flood  toward,  and  these 
couples  are  coming  to  the  ark." — As  You  Like  It. 

Kate  Warden  was  very  young,  and  very 
timid,  but  she  was  not  too  young  to  fall  in 
love  with  Donald  M'Leod,  and  not  too 
timid  to  murmur  out,  at  last,  her  consent 
to  his  propositions  of  marriage.  There 
was  a  condition  annexed,  which  was,  that 
M'Leod  should  become  an  American  citi- 
zen— a  condition  to  which  he  very  readily 
consented,  for  his  parents^  were  living  in 
one  of  the  northern  States.  It  now  be- 
came necessary  for  him  to  visit  them ; 
and  when  he  returned,  in  the  latter  part  of 
October,  he  set  Alamance  in  a  blaze  of 
joy  by  the  news  of  the  surrender  of  Corn- 
wallis.  He  brought,  also,  important  intel- 
ligence to  the  master,  who,  in  consequence 
of  what  he  heard,  set  out  in  haste  for  Bos- 
ton. He  found  that  his  father's  old  part- 
ner had  proved  at  last  to  be  a  fortunate 
and  an  honest  man  ;  and  from  him  he  re- 
ceived the  whole  amount  of  his  father's 
stock,  with  a  handsome  interest  from  the 
time  it  had  been  under  the  Bostonian's 
management.  This  unexpected  discovery 
of  wealth,  and  of  virtue,  where  he  little 
expected  to  find  either,  together  with  the 
brightening  prospects  of  the  American 
cause,  very  sensibly  affected  the  master's 
feelings,  and  he  returned  to  Alamance  an 
altered  man.  It  is  curious  to  trace  this 
change  in  the  tone  of  his  notes,  from 
which,  with  the  reader's  indulgence,  we 
make  a  few  quotations  : 

"  This  excursion"  (alluding  to  his  north- 
ern trip)  "  had  a  most  happy  effect  upon 
me,  and  I  daily  found  my  heart  growing 
younger  and  fresher.  May  God  forgive 
me  for  it,  I  began  to  imagine  that  I  saw 
virtue  and  beauty  in  woman,  and  formed 
several  acquaintances  with  whom  I  spent 
my  time  agreeably.  I  thought  that  she, 
woman,  was  no  longer  vthe  semper  varium 
et  mutabile  of  the  poet  Virgil,  and  I  was 
guilty*  on  several  occasions,  of  the  miser- 
able folly  of  paying  compliments  and  in- 


diting verses  in  my  own  name.  I  saw 
several  of  my  old  female  acquaintances  in 
Philadelphia,  and,  not  having  witnessed 
the  gradual  decay  of  their  charms,  I  was 
not  prepared  for  a  sight  so  forlorn  as  their 
withered  forms  and  wrinkled  faces  pre- 
sented. One  of  my  old  gossips — the  one 
at  whose  hands  I  had  received  very  ill 
usage — was  still  flourishing  in  a  green  old 
maidenhood,  the  terror  of  all  widowers  and 
sedate  and  elderly  bachelors.  She  had 
become  extremely  devout,  was  a  thorough, 
bluestocking,  and  dwelt  upon  the  vanities 
of  the  world  with  an  unction  that  would 
have  honoured  the  most  ranting  Indepen- 
dent in  Cromwell's  army.  She  received 
me,  so  to  speak,  with  open  arms,  and  a 
storm  of  caresses ;  but  I  was  vilely  un- 
grateful, and  left  her  as  far  from  the  prom- 
ised land  of  matrimony  as  when  she  first 
commenced  her  pilgrimage  thither.  All 
things,  even  inanimate,  wore  a  pleasing 
appearance.  Was  this  but  the  reflection 
of"  my  feelings,  or  was  old  Nature,  con- 
scious of  the  approaching  dawn  of  better 
things,  glowing  again  with  the  charms  of 
her  youth  1  I  was  inclined  to  this  latter 
opinion,  and,  in  the  fullness  of  my  grateful 
heart,  went  to  see  the  political  redeemer 
of  our  race — the  man  whose  career  had 
settled  the  long-disputed  question,  whether 
a  son  of  fallen  Adam  could  be  truly  great. 
How  shall  I  describe  my  feelings  when 
that  glorious  vision  beamed  upon  my  sight? 
Although  he  was  surrounded  by  fine-look- 
ing and  illustrious  men,  I  knew  him  as 
soon  as  I  laid  my  eyes  upon  him;  for 
among  them  he, 

'  in  shape  and  gesture  proudly  eminent, 
Stood  like  a  tower.' 

I  stood  for  a  long  time  gazing  on  him, 
and  the  longer  I  looked  the  more  was  I 
impressed  by  the  majesty  of  that  face, 
which  1  felt  was  to  be  stamped  on  the 
hearts  of  all  generations  of  men.  For  a 
while  I  could  scarcely  realize  my  situa- 
tion, and  was.  nearly  overpowered  by  my 
feelings  as  I  looked  down  the  dim  vista 
of  future  years,  and  saw  the  gathering 
glories  that  would  cluster  around  the  mem- 
ory of  the  man  who  stood  living  and  breath- 
ing before  me.  And  this,  thought  I,  is 
Washington,  whose  name,  in  all  languages 
under  heaven,  will  become  as  familiar  as 
household  words !  I  reverently  took  his 
hand,  and  hardly  thought  it  flesh  and  blood 
till  he  spoke  to  me.  Yes,  I  heard  the 
voice  of  Washington !  I  told  him  I  was 
an  humble  pedagogue  who  had  '  done  the 
state  some  service,'  and  who  came  to  pay 
his  respects  to  his  country's  greatest  man. 
'The  schoolmaster  shall  be  the  greatest 
man  in  our  Republic'  These  were  his 
very  words;  and  oh  that  they  were  graven 
with  an  iron  pen  and  laid  in  the  rock  for- 
ever !    I  remembered  the  language  of  th» 


ALAMANCE. 


135 


Prophet  Isaiah,  and  thought  the  time  had 
come  of  which  he  spoke  when  he  said  a 
man  should  be  '  as  the  shadow  of  a  great 
rock  in  a  weary  land.'  " 

The  master  was  welcomed  back  to  Ala- 
mance ;  and  when  it  was  ascertained  that 
he  had  seen  General  Washington  he  was 
compelled  to  relate  to  every  one,  children 
included,  every  minute  particular  about 
the  dress,  the  manners,  the  looks,  and 
words  of  the  American  chief.  He  was 
as  ready  to  answer  as  others  were  to  ask  ; 
and,  though  usually  a  discreet  man,  he 
ever  after,  at  all  places  and  the  most  odd 
conjunctures  would  allude  to  this  inter- 
view ;  and  "  When  I  saw  that  great  man, 
General  Washington,"  was  sometimes  the 
prelude  to  a  story  inapropos  and  tedious. 
In  the  mean  time  the  suits  of  M'Leod  and 
Rust  advanced  apace  ;  and  the  master, 
gratified  by  the  confidence  all  parties  re- 
posed in  him,  used  his  best  endeavours  to 
promote  the  laudable  business  of  marrying. 
It  is  singular,  but  it  is,  nevertheless,  true, 
that  he  even -came  to  be  considered  as  au 
fait  in  affairs  of  the  heart,  and  every  day 
was  visited  by  some  forlorn  gallant,  who 
poured  into  his  faithful  bosom  the  oft- 
repeated  tale  of  woman's  folly  and  perver- 
sity. He  listened  patiently  to  the  moment- 
ous narration  of  little  quarrels  and  cross- 
es, and  looked  on  with  a  sturdy  gravity, 
while  his  garrulous  clients  ran  over,  with 
many  flourishes  and  circumlocutions,  the 
whole  catalogue  of  the  words,  looks, 
frowns,  smiles,  nods,  and  gestures  of  their 
mysterious  mistresses.  He  gave  good  ad- 
vice, assisted  in  the  composition  of  letters 
and  verses,  and  sometimes  delivered  mes- 
sages. As  all  the  world  is  ruled  by  fash- 
ion, there  was  in  those  days  a  vast  deal  of 
love-making  done  at  Alamanca,  and  a  brisk 
business  in  the  way  of  weddings  was  short- 
ly expected.  It  was,  however,  in  all  cases 
agreed  to  wait  for  the  arrival  of  Henry 
Warden,  and  thus  the  return  of  that  popu- 
lar young  gentleman  was  expected  with  a 
lively  interest;  a  solicitude,  by  the  way, 
in  which  some  of  his  female  friends  par- 
ticipated. 


CHAPTER  LV. 

HOME  AGAIN  AFTER  A  LONG  ABSENCE. 

The  Warden  mansion  was  refitted,  the 
estate  repaired,  and  the  place  beginning  to 
wear  its  former  appearance.  All  the  liv- 
ing, except  Henry,  were  again  gathered  to 
their  former  home,  and  with  them,  dwell- 
ing as  a  member  of  the  family,  was  Donald 
M'Leod.  The  master  chose  to  reside 
mostly  with  Mrs.  Mayfield;  and  to  Edith, 
who  had  become  a  favourite  with  him,  he 
confided  all  the  love  secrets  which  he 
heard.    She  shared,  with  him,  an  interest 


in  such  things,  and  having,  from  expe- 
rience, learned  the  fatal  effects  of  incon- 
siderate and  hasty  pets  and  quarrels,  she 
made  it  her  business  to  heal  divisions  and 
bring  about  a  fair  understanding  between 
enamoured  couples.  Her  influence  with 
the  ladies  was  very  great,  and  her  advice, 
which  was  gently  insinuated  and  never 
given  in  the  shape  of  lectures,  was  always 
wholesome  and  judicious,  for  misfortunes 
and  reflection  had  made  her  wise  beyond 
her  sex.  There  was  not  a  poor,  an  un- 
happy, or  a  needy  wretch  whom  her  char- 
ity did  not  reach,  and  she  was  felt  as  a 
blessing  through  all  Alamance,  though, 
none  but  God  and  the  receivers  knew  of 
her  bounties.  She  knew  all  the  neigh- 
bourhood histories  by  heart,  and  every  day 
she  might  be  seen  in  some  unhappy  home, 
listening  to  the  good  wife's  long  detail  of 
accideYits  and  misfortunes.  She  often  vis- 
ited the  Wardens,  whom  she  found  much 
depressed  at  the  long  absence  of  Henry, 
from  whom  they  had  not  heard  since  the 
battle  of  Guilford.  Indeed,  George  War- 
den and  his  lady  began  secretly  to  mourn 
their  son  as  lost,  when  suddenly  one  day 
the  cry  of  "  Master  Henry !  Master  Hen- 
ry !"  brought  the  white  people  to  the  door, 
whence  they  saw  old  Ben  and  a  troop  of 
negro  boys  running  like  mad  down  the 
lane,  shouting,  whooping,  and  flinging  up 
their  hats.  In  a  few  minutes  a  single 
horseman  emerged  from  the  skirt  of  a 
wood  beyond  the  bridge,  and  then  from 
field,  cabin,  and  mansion-house  another 
shout  was  raised,  and  Kate  Warden,  utter- 
ly forgetting  the  presence  of  her  lover, 
bounded  off  like  a  young  roe  to  meet  her 
brother.  The  latter  was  dragged  from  his 
horse  at  the  bridge  by  the  negroes,  in  the 
midst  of  whom  he  slowly  moved  along,  at 
least  half  a  dozen  of  them  holding  by  the 
skirts  of  his  coat,  and  the  whole  crowd 
keeping  up  such  a  crying  and  yelling  as 
was  never  heard  before.  In  this  fashion 
they  moved  up  the  lane,  the  negroes,  with 
the  whole  force  of  their  melodious  voices, 
rolling  out  a  most  affecting  triumphal  song 
with  the  burden  t 

"  O-ho — O-ho,  Master  Henry's  come  again  !"*j 
and  old  Ben,  with  the  big  tears  streaming 

*  The  author  well  recollects  having  often  heard 
this  air  when  a  boy ;  and,  though  very  simple,  he  still 
thinks  it  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  pathetic  he 
ever  heard.  In  all  the  different  sets  of  words  the 
burden  was  some  sort  of  family  reunion,  and  the 
most  popular  were  those  beginning 

"  O-ho — O-ho,  Master  William's  coming  home  !" 

The  tune  is  extremely  like  that  known  as  "  Long 
time  ago,"  of  which  it  is  the  original.  This  latter, 
which  is  only  one  of  a  thousand  like  it,  has  been 
rescued  from  oblivion  by  appropriate  poetry.  What 
Burns  or  Moore  will  confer  a  lasting  obligation  on 
every  lover  of  good  music  by  composing  words  foe 
the  others  ?  Here  is  a  wide  field  for  our  Southern 
bards. 


136 


ALAMANCE. 


down  his  face,  leading  the  band,  swaying 
his  head  to  and  fro,  and  clapping  his  hands, 
till  he  became  so  happy  that  he  suddenly 
cut  the  music  short,  bellowing  out, "  Glory 
be  to  the  eternal  God 'Almighty,  Master 
Henry's  come  again  !"  Henry  walked  on 
in  silence,  and  weeping  like  a  very  child 
till  he  met  his  sister.  The  negroes  now 
made  way  for  her,  and  flying  into  his  arms, 
she  hung  about  his  neqk,  kissing  him  on 
every  part  of  his-  face,  as  he  did  also  with 
her,  till  their  overcharged  hearts  had  re- 
lieved themselves  and  they  were  able,  with 
their  hands  locked  together,  to  continue 
on  to  the  house.  Here  followed  another 
scene,  the  father  dropping  some  silent 
tears,  and  the  mother  holding  her  son  to 
her  breast  as  if  fearful  some  one  would 
force  him  from  her.  M'Leod,  who,  from 
proper  feelings,  had  withdrawn,  now.came 
in,  and  after  him  a  multitude  of  slaves,  in- 
cluding old  and  young,  male  and  female, 
the  halt,  the  lame,  and  the  blind.  Among 
the  first  things  that  Henry  heard  was  the 
news  of  Edith  Mayfield's  safe  return  to 
Alamance  ;  and,  desiring  at  once  to  inform 
her  of  his  arrival,  and  that  he  would  visit 
her  early  next  day,  he  went  out  to  look 
for  Ben.  That  faithful  servant,  however, 
was  nowhere  to  be  found.  He  had,  as 
it  afterward  appeared,  taken  the  fleetest 
horse  in  the  stables,  and,  like  a  Highland 
courier,  went  flying  over  the  neighbour- 
hood, shouting,  as  he  passed  each  house, 
that  Master  Henry  had  returned.  Thus  it 
happened,  that  in  the  course  of  that  very 
evening  a  number  of  his  friends  called  on 
Warden,  and  among  them  were  Ben  Rust, 
Hector  M'Bride,  and  the  men  who  had 
fought  at  the  battle  of  Camden.  But 
though  Henry  was  truly  glad  to  see  his 
family  and  his  friends,  and  though  he  had 
much  to  tell,  and  much  to  hear,  that  was 
to  him  the  longest  evening  and  night  he 
had  ever  spent.  His  toilet  next  morning 
was  more  attended  to  than  it  had  been  for 
years ;  and,  leaving  the  master  at  his  fa- 
ther's, he  started  early  for  the  Mayfields. 
As  he  neared  the  house  he  was  met  by  a 
servant,  who  said  that  his  mistress  desired 
him,  for  God's  sake,  to  return  immediate- 
ly, as  Miss  Edith  had  the  night  before  been 
taken  ill  with  the  small-pox.  "  If  there 
were  forty  devils  in  the  house  I  would  en- 
ter it,"  exclaimed  Warden,  impatiently 
spurring  on  his  horse,  and  paying  no  at- 
tention to  the  entreaties  of  the  slave.  In 
the  yard  he  was  met  by  Mrs.  Mayfield, 
who  in  vain  tried  to  conceal  her  emotion, 
and  who,  after  a  considerable  struggle  with 
herself,  repeated  the  information  of  the 
servant. 

"  How  is  it  possible  that  you  can  tell  the 
disease  so  soon  V  asked  Henry ;  "  I  thought 
it  took  several  days  to  develope  its  char- 
acter." 

"  I   km  familiar  with  the   symptoms," 


answered  Mrs.  Mayfield,  "and  so  is  the 
doctor,  who  agrees  with  me  that  it  is  cer- 
tainly the  small-pox." 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Mayfield,"  said  Henry, 
"I  am  not  afraid  for  myself;  and  to  pre- 
vent my  carrying  the  disease  abroad  I  will 
remain  with  you  till  Edith  recovers.  If  it 
is  not  indelicate,  do,  I  beseech  you,  for 
God's  sake,  let  me  see  her ;  let  me  only 
get  a  glimpse  of  her  face." 

"  I  am  extremely  sorry  that  it  is  impos- 
sible," replied  Mrs.  Mayfield.  "  Edith  is  in. 
bed  and  quite  unwell,  and  it  is  her  own 
request  that  you  should  come  no  nearer. 
For  myself,  I  am  inclined  to  gratify  your 
wishes,  even  at  the  risk  of  your  safety ; 
but  you  know  I  would  not  tell  you  a  story 
when  I  say  she  insists  that  you  return  at 
once.  I  will  bear  your  love  to  her,  how- 
ever, and  bring  you  her  answer." 

"  Do,  if  you  please,  and  ask  her  how  it 
is  possible  for  me  to  serve  her." 

The  good  woman  soon  returned,  bring- 
ing a  kind  message  from  Edith,  and  a 
request  that  Henry  would  instantly  return, 
and  wait  patiently  till  she  recovered.  .  He 
had  to  submit,  and  went  home  with  a  heavy 
heart.  His  news  astonished  and  affected 
every  body  ;  and  the  master,  who  had  been 
inoculated,  after  arranging  with  Henry  a 
plan  of  communication,  immediately  took 
his  leave.  Henry  Warden  had  now  leis- 
ure to  hear  the  history  of  Lucy  Neal ;  and, 
occupied  as  he  was  with  thoughts  for 
Edith's  safety,  he  found  time  sincerely  to 
mourn  for  his  tender  friend  of  the  mount- 
ains. He  deeply  lamented  that  he  had 
ever  seen  her,  and  although  while  with  her 
he  had  acted  with  more  than  mortal  firm- 
ness and  prudence,  he  bitterly  condemned 
himself,  and  even  went  so  far  as  to  consult 
the  Rev.  Dr:  Caldwell  upon  the  morality 
of  his  conduct.  The  reverend  gentleman 
resolved  his  doubts  ;  and  with  a  lighter 
conscience  he  went  every  day  to  see  the 
master,  and  hear  from  Edith.  She  soon 
took  a  turn  for  the  better,  and  rapidly  re- 
covered ;  but  when  Henry  thought  he  might 
see  her  with  impunity  he  was  astounded 
by  the  reception  of  the  following  note  : 

"  Me.  Warden  : 
"  If  you  would  consult  your  own  happiness 
and  mine,  you  must  forget  me.  That  you  may 
not  think  me  unreasonable,  I  need  only  remind 
you  of  the  sad  and  lasting  injury  the  small-pox 
does  to  personal  beauty.  It  is  true  I  had  little 
before,  but  then  I  was  not  a  fright.  Think  on 
me  as  on  the  dead,  and  know  that  I  pray  for 
your  happiness.     Adieu  ! 

"  Edith  Mayfield. " 

Henry  sent  a  thousand  urgent  messages 
by  the  master,  and  finding  them  of  no  avail,' 
he  took  to  writing ;  and  as  his  correspon- 
dence may  be  interesting  to  those  in  love, 
it  is  given  in  the  following  chapter. 


ALAMANCVE. 


137 


CHAPTER  LVI. 

Letter  First,  from  Henry  Warden  to  Edith 
Mayfield. 
"Dear  Edith, 

"  I  am  loath  to  question,  in  any  particular, 
the  reasonableness  of  your  conduct ;  but  1 
must  be  permitted  to  say,  that  I  think  you  are 
now  acting  strangely.  Do  not,  I  beseech  you, 
understand  me  as  chiding  you;  I  would  not, 
for  my  own  right  hand,  utter  an  unkind  word. 
I  have  never  done  it.  From  a  child  I  have 
ever  loved  you  more  than  my  own  life,  and  in 
all  my  wanderings  and  trials  your  image  has 
ever  been  present  to  my  heart.  I  have  never, 
for  a  moment,  ceased  to  think  of  you  for  years; 
but  how  have  1  thought  of  you  1  Not  as  (what 
you  were  most  truly)  a  beautiful  lady ;  not  as 
an  heiress ;  not  as  connected  with  any  thing 
temporal  or  perishable.  Having  grown  up  with 
you,  it  is  your  mind  and  heart,  your  soul,  if  I 
may  say  so,  which  I  have  learned  to  love  ;  and 
as  long  as  these  remain  what  they  were  and 
what  they  are,  I  shall  never  cease  to  love  you 
and  think  you  beautiful.  Your  voice,  I  doubt 
not,  still  sounds  with  its  wonted  melody ;  your 
temper  still  serene,  the  goodness  of  your  heart 
boundless,  the  beauties  of  your  mind  rich,  rare, 
and  enchanting.  Do  you  suppose  that,  had  it 
pleased  Providence  to  unite  'us,  I  would  not 
have  loved  you  with  tender  devotion  till  your 
latest  breath  1  And  yet  we  see  that  personal 
beauty  soon  begins  to  fade.  I  declare  to  you, 
solemnly,  that,  be  you  what  you  may,  you  are 
still  as  dear,  far  dearer  than  you  ever  were  be- 
fore. Then,  if  you  love  me,  why  not  let  me 
see  you'?  If  you  love  me,  why  bury  yourself 
from  the  world  1  If  you  love  me,  why  need 
you  care  what  others  think  of  your  appearance'! 
Oh,  for  Heaven's  sake,  let  me  see  you,  if  it  is 
only  once. 

"  With  the  most  sincere  devotion,  I  remain 
yours, 

"  Henry  Warden." 

Edith's  Answer. 
"  Mr.  Warden, 
"  I  had  hoped  that,  after  my  first  note,  it 
would  not  -be  necessary  for  me  to  write  again. 
It  seems  to  me  that  you  are  infatuated — I  say 
it  respectfully — and  that  you  are  permitting 
your  imagination  to  deceive  you.  You  think 
you  regard  me  with  affection,  and,  indeed,  it  is 
possible  that  you  may;  but  is  it  not  Edith  as 
she  was  that  you  love  1  Tell  me,  when  you 
think  of  me  now,  do  you  see,  in  your  mind's 
eye,  a  form  emaciated  and  bent ;  a  face  deeply 
pitted  and  scarred,  eyes  bleared,  and  head 
almost  entirely  bald  ?  Is  not  this  a  disgusting 
picture  1  And  yet  you  force  me  to  draw  it,  and 
would  be  guilty  of  the  indelicacy  of  looking  on 
it.  As  soon  as  you  see  me  there  will  be  a 
terrible  revulsion  in  your  feelings,  and  you 
could  not  even  respect  me  again.  Need  I 
say  more  to  a  gentleman  of  your  sensibilities  1 
Please  burn  this.     Adieu  ! 

"  Edith  Mayfield." 

Letter  Second,  from  Henry  Warden. 
"My  Dear  Edith, 
"  With    natural   diffidence  I  used,    in   my 
former  letter,  the. simple  prefix  of  'dear?  I 


now  take  the  liberty  of  prefixing  '  my'  to  that. 
You  are  mine,  for  you  do  not  deny  that  you 
once  have  loved  me.  If  we  gave  our  hearts  to 
each  other,  were  we  not  married  in  the  sight 
of  Heaven  1  And  you  know  the  solemn  in- 
junction, 'Whom  God  hath  joined,  let  no  man 
put  asunder  !'  Edith,  my  dear,  dear  Edith, 
what  do  you  take  me  for  1  Is  it  possible  that 
you  have  regarded  me  as  a  giddy  body,  a  light- 
hearted,  gay  Lothario,  one  of  those  dull  com- 
pounds of  animated  clay,  who  are  incapable 
of  a  feeling  that  is  not  conveyed  through  the 
medium  of  the  senses  1  If  you  did,  then  such 
a  being  as  you  never  could  have  loved  me ; 
if  you  did  not,  then  you  ought  to  know,  that  it 
was  not  your  face,  and  its  fading  ornaments, 
that  won  the  adoration  of  my  soul.  I  have 
attentively  regarded  the  picture  which  you 
have  drawn  :  I  have  even  added  some  darker 
touches ;  and  I  say,  in  all  sincerity,  and  God  is 
my  witness,  I  love  you  !  and  there  is  no  power 
in  eloquence,  or  in  poetry,  to  express  what  I 
mean  by  that  simple  sentence.  I  can  express 
it  only  by  my  actions  ;  by  a  constant  devotion, 
a  boundless  tenderness,  a  ceaseless  exertion 
of  every  faculty  of  soul  and  body  to  minister  to 
your  happiness  while  you  live.  Try  me,  oh,  try 
me,  I  beseech  you ;  and  if  I  prove  not,  to  the 
letter,  what  I  have  promised,  may  my  name  be 
covered  with  perpetual  infamy  !  Edith  !  I  am 
not  infatuated :  I  am  not  deceived  by  my 
imagination.  I  have  gone  through  many 
trials  ;  I  have  been  sobered  by  years  of  ad- 
versity ;  I  have  had  time  to,  reflect  and  weigh 
things  dispassionately.  We  have  both  gone 
through  a  fiery  ordeal  ;  and  now,  with  en- 
larged and  proper  views,  with  chastened  de- 
sires, and  hearts  purified  from  all  the  giddy 
vanities  of  youth,  although  we  are  yet  young, 
how  happy,  how  lastingly  happy  could  we  be 
together !  Again  I  entreat  you,  I  beg  you,  if 
you  have  any  regard  for  my  happiness — if  you 
would  not  make  me  a  wreck,  a  gloomy,  mis- 
anthropic wretch  for  life,  let  me  see  you  !  let 
met  touch  your  hand  again  ;  let  me  hear,  if 
but  once,  the  dear,  dear  sound  of  your  voice ! 
Please,  please  let  me  see  you,  and  then  you 
may  impose  your  own  conditions.  I  want  , 
only  a  chance  of  speaking  to  you,  for  I  cannot 
convey  my  earnest  thoughts  by  letter, 

"  With  the  most  tender  and  lasting  affec- 
tion, 

"  Henry  Warden." 

In  about  a  week  the  following  answer 
was  returned  : 

"  Mr.  Warden, 
"Why  do  you  continue  to  persecute  me? 
I  ask  you  again — nay,  I  command  you,  forget 
"  Edith  Mayfield." 

Letter  Third  from  Henry  Warden. 
"My  Dearest  Edith:  I  have  ever  been 
ready  to  obey  your  commands  till  now.  You 
order  ine  to  do  an  impossibility,  and  I  tell  you 
plainly,  and  once  for  all,  I  cannot,  I  will  not 
forget  you.  Forget  you  !  Forget  the  sweetest 
hope  of  my  life,  the  only  object  that  binds  me 
to  earth  !  It  is  you  who  are  infatuated  ;  it  is 
you  who  have  permitted  your  own  darkly  brood- 
ing imagination  to  deceive  you.  Edith  !  my 
dearest  Edith,  why  do  you  not  listen  to  reason  ? 


138 


ALAMANCE. 


Why  do  you  not,  if  you  can,  answer  my  let- 
ters 1  Does  not  my  whole  life  prove  how  ar- 
dently, how  constantly,  how  truly  I  have  loved 
youl  Has  not  my  affection  been  tested  by 
every  sort  of  discouraging  obstacle — by  your 
own  apparent  coldness,  by  long  absence,  by 
severe  temptations  1  Was  I  not,  after  a  long 
absence  from  you — after  you  had  slighted,  in- 
sulted, and  spurned  me — thrown  into  the  society 
of  a  most  beautiful  and  enchanting  creature, 
whose  untimely  end  we  all  lament  1  Have  not 
beauty,  wit,  elegance,  flattery,  wealth,  and  par- 
tiality in  vain  made  attempts  upon  my  heart  1 
Again,  you  do  not  deny  that  you  love  me  ;  and, 
as  you  are  acting  without  reason,  I'll  tell  you 
what  I  mean  to  do.  I  intend  to  persecute  you 
with  letters  every  day;  I'll  send  messengers, 
I'll  beset  your  path,  waylay  you,  watch  night 
and  day  for  you  until  I  see  you.  If  you  expect 
to  get  rid  of  me,  you  must  lock  yourself  in  your 
room,  and  there  remain,  and  never  see  a  hu- 
man being,  for  I'll  bribe  every  servant  on  the 
place  to  petition  you  in  my  behalf.  The  siege 
is  now  regularly  commenced,  and  you  may  as 
well  surrender  at  once. 
"  Yours,  in  the  bonds  of  eternal  love. 

"  Henky  Warden." 

The  next  day  Henry  Warden  received 
the  following  answer: 

"  Mr.  Warden  :  As  you  seem  to  be  so  cruel- 
minded,  I  will  grant  your  request,  but  on  this 
express  condition :  You  are  barely  to  see  me 
and  speak  to  me,  and  then  retire  to  persecute 
me  no  more.  You  must  exhibit  no  emotion  ; 
speak  not  of  love,  and  never  mention  the  ugli- 
ness of  my  person.  I  trust  to  your  honor  in 
this,  and  hope,  as  you  are  a  gentlemen,  you  will 
consult  my  wishes. 

"  Edith  Mayfield." 

Warden  was  so  overjoyed  at  this  per- 
mission, that  he  was  upon  the  road  before 
he  began  to  reflect  on  the  consequences  of 
his  visit.  It  now  struck  him  all  at  once 
that  Edith  might  be  right,  and  the  nearer 
he  approached  the  more  he  dreaded  the 
effect  of  her  altered  looks.  His  reflections 
took  a  gloomy  turn,  and  he  again  remem- 
bered the  advice  of  the  master.  He  re- 
membered, also,  Lucy  Neal,  and  she  now 
rose  before  his  imagination  more  beautiful, 
more  tender  and  lovely  than  she  had  ever 
seemed  before.  "  What  a  strange  fate  has 
been  mine,"  thought  he ;  "  how  do  all 
things  conspire  to  teach  me  the  folly  of 
love.     I  have  contended  with  fate — I  have 

mistaken  my  destiny — I  have "  but  he 

was  now  at  the  gate. 

The  servant  who  took  his  horse  seemed 
sad;  every  thing  about  the  place  looked 
gloomy,  and  even  Mrs.  Mayfield  received 
him  with  a  mournful  look.  It  appeared  to 
Warden  that  she  tried  hard  to  conceal  her 
extreme  dejection,  and  he  thought  she 
looked  as  if  she  was  sorry  he  had  come. 
Saying  to  him,  with  a  faint  effort  at  a  smile, 
"  Brace  your  nerves,  Mr.  Warden,"  she  re- 
tired, an  opposite  door  opened,  and  War- 
den, turning,  beheld  Edith  Mayfield,  blush- 


ing like  the  morning,  beautiful  as  the  first 
star  of  evening.  She  faltered  at  the  door, 
and  Warden,  catching  her  in  his  arms,  the 
past  and  the  future  vanished  from  the 
minds  of  each,  themselves,  their  situation, 
and  every  thing  else  were  forgotten  in  the 
ecstacy  of  that  blissful  moment.  The 
minute-hand  of  the  clock  performed  a  rev- 
olution, and  Warden  was  still  pressing 
Edith  in  his  arms,  occasionally  raising  her 
drooping  head  from  his  bosom  to  look  into 
her  tearful  eyes  and  fervently  touch  his 
lips  to  hers,  while  at  every  kiss  she  wept 
as  if  her  heart  were  breaking.  Something 
was  said  by  each — Warden,  particularly, 
murmured  many  broken  sentences,  but 
neither  knew  then,  nor  ever  have  since, 
what  they  were.  He  at  length  recovered 
himself  sufficiently  to  ask  her  why  she 
wept ;  "  I  cannot  help  it,"  was  her  answer, 
and  again  she  wept  and  sobbed  convulsive- 
ly. He  must  needs  press  her  still  more 
closely  and  kiss  her  again,  and  so  they 
continued,  for  how  long  no  one  knows. 
She  had  proved  his  affection — she  was  sat- 
isfied he  had  loved  only  her,  and  so,  totally 
forgetting  her  promised  lecture  about  per- 
secutions, she  permitted  him  to  set  a  day 
for  their  nuptials. 

The  master  looked  very  quizzically  at 
Warden  when  he  returned,  and,  taking  him 
aside,  he  asked,  with  great  gravity,  "  Didn't 
you  find  that1  the  small-pox  had  made  her- 
a  real  monster  ?" 

"  Pshaw !"  exclaimed  Warden ; "  why  did 
you  try  to  fool  me  so  ?" 

The  services  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Caldwell 
were  now  in  great  demand  at  Alamance, 
and  the  good  old  gentleman  eased  many 
an  aching  heart. 


CHAPTER  LVII. 

"  Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 
And  never  brought  to  rriind  ? 
Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 
And  the  days  of  auld  lang  syne  ?" 

Auld  Lang  Syne. 

"  The  taste  of  Mrs.  Warden  and  Of  her 
beautiful  daughter  and  daughter-in-law 
suggested  these  floral  decorations ;  but  I 
may  say,  without  vanity,  that  they  were 
indebted  to  my  skill  for  their  execution. 
It  is  true  I  received  some  assistance  from 
old  black  Ben,  but  he  was  clumsy  and 
awkward ;  and  as  for  those  young  gallants, 
Henry  Warden  and  Donald  M'Leod,  they 
were  too  entirely  absorbed  with  the  con- 
templation of  their  newly-married  wives 
to  be  worth  a  fig  for  any  other  purpose. 
Upon  the  arch  of  the  great  gate,  and  on 
both  sides,  were  arranged  festoons  of  flow- 
ers, those  on  the  outside  being  of  a  lilac 
colour,  and  formed  into  letters  so  as  to 
spell  very  distinctly,  'Independence,'  and 
those  on  the  inside  and  fronting  the  house 
being  of  a  deep  crimson,  and  so  adjusted 


ALAMANCE. 


130 


as  to  make  the  word '  Liberty'  legible  at  a 
great  distance.  Above  each  was  the  name 
of '  Washington,'  formed  of  beautiful  white 
roses,  and  around  and  beneath  were  various 
emblematic  representations,  all  formed  of 
.flowers  whose  various  hues  were  so  blend- 
ed and  contrasted  as  to  make  a  most  de- 
lightful picture.  Again,  above  the  front 
door  of  the  house  appeared  the  name  of 
'  Washington'  in  white  roses,  and  under  it 
and  formed  of  different  coloured  blossoms 
were, '  Peace,  Liberty,  and  Independence.' 
Festoons,  garlands,  and  crowns  hung  from 
the  boughs  of  different  trees,  and  over  the 
walk,  between  the  gate  and  house,  was  a 
magnificent  '  W,'  formed  of  floral  chains 
that  ran  from  tree  to  tree,  and  attached  to 
which  there  hung  pendulous  ornaments  of 
the  most  beautiful  taste  and  finish,  and 
representing  the  thirteen  United  States." 

This  above  extract  is  taken  from  that 
part  of  the  master's  notes  where  he  gives 
a  very  minute  and  elaborate  account  of  the 
preparations  made  at  Warden's  for  another 
great  entertainment.  As  was  the  case  in 
regard  to  the  Christmas  dinner,  of  which 
we  have  before  given  an  account,  invita- 
tions were  sent  to  nearly  all  the  Aiaman- 
cers,  and  though  it  was  an  evening  party, 
the  guests  were  expected  to  arrive  at  least 
an  hour  before  night.  Accordingly,  as  the 
sun  was  declining  in  the  glowing  west, 
they  came  pouring  in  from  all  quarters  of 
the  compass,  and  soon  every  Whig  family 
in  the  whole  community  was  fully  repre- 
sented. When  the  company  had  all  col- 
lected, and  the  usual  salutations  had  passed, 
they  were  all  requested  to  attend  at  a  car- 
peted platform  in  the  yard,  which  had  been 
formed  under  one  of  the  largest  trees,  and 
on  which  stoo.d  an  empty  arm-chair.  In  a 
few  minutes  George  Warden  came  leading 
out  an  aged  matron,  and  placing  her  in  the 
chair,  spoke  as  follows  :  ~"  My  friends,  be- 
hold the  mother  of  Alamance  !  She  lost 
an  only  son  in  the  war,  and  lo !  she  has 
found  a  host,  of  children  !" 

"  Hail,  mother  of  Alamance !"  cried  the 
assembled  multitude ;  and  each  one  pressed 
forward  to  kiss  her  hand. 

When  they  had  all  paid  this. tribute  of 
reverence  to  their  adopted  mother,  she 
arose,  and,  with  a  trembling  voice  and 
outstretched  arms,  exclaimed—"  My  chil- 
dren— my  children,  the  blessing  of  God  be 
with  you  all !"  She  could  say  no  more  ; 
and,  completely  overcome  by  her  emotions, 
was  supported  into  the  house.  There  was 
now  a  loud  cry  of  "  Edith  Mayfieid  !  Edith 
Warden !"  and,  trembling  and  blushing,  she 
was  led  by  the  master  and  by  her  husband 
upon  the  platform.  Her  appearance  was 
greeted  with  a  tremendous  shout ;  and,  amid 
cries  of  "crown  her!  crown  her  queen!" 
a  band  of  ladies  ascended  the  platform 
and  placed  a  beautiful  coronet  of  flowers 
and  evergreens  upon  her  head.    "  Three 


cheers  for  Henry  Warden!"  were  next 
called  for  and  given,  whereupon  Ben  Rust 
mounted  the  platform,  and,  calling  for  si- 
lence, said,  "  My  Christin  friends,  you've 
all  heern  of  the  history  of  Edith  Mayfieid, 
that  was,  and  how  she  was  saved  by  the 
beautiful  Flora  M'Donald.  I  told  her  when 
we  all  got  to  Alamance  we'd  give  her  three 
everlastin  cheers  ;  and  I  want  you  all  now 
to  holler  as  if  you  were  hallooin  to  some 
one  in  the  moon !"  The  injunction  was 
obeyed,  and  then  came  three  shouts  for 
General  Greene,  and  three  times  three  for 
General  Washington.  The  shadows  of 
evening  were  dispersing  into  darkness, 
rows  of  suspended  lamps  and  candles  be- 
gan to  twinkle  through  the  grove,  and  the 
master,  with  a  long  manuscript  in  his  hand, 
rose  upon  the  platform.  "All  hats  off," 
said  he,  "  while  I  now  read  over  this  im- 
mortal list — this  scroll  more  honourable  to 
those  whose  names  are  on  it  than  the 
lying  pages  of  heraldry  or  the  Golden  Book 
of  Venice.  Here  my  friends  are  the  orig- 
inal resolutions  signed  at  the  memorable 
exhibition  at  the  old  field,  school ;  and  now 
we  will  see  who  has  fallen  in  the  strife, 
who  proved  recreant,  and  who  still  live  to 
reap  the  glorious  rewards  of  their  deeds. 
The  names  of  the  miscreants  who  broke 
their  solemn  pledges  are  marked  with  the 
word  traitor  after  each,  and  those  of  our 
friends  who  are  now  no  more  with  stars 
or  asterisks.  My  own  name  it  is  unne- 
cessary to  call,  for  I  stand  here  before 
you." 

"We'll  cheer  you  though,"  some  one 
said,  and  at  it  they  went. 

"  David  Caldwell !"  said  the  master. 
"  Here  !"  was  the  answer,  and  again  three 
deafening  shouts  rent  the  air.  The  mas- 
ter continued  :  "  Edward  Forbes  !"  There 
was  a  deep  silence  for  a  minute,  when  the 
master  exclaimed,  "  Eternal  honour  to  his 
name  and  everlasting  peace  to  his  soul !"  , 
"  Amen !"  responded  the  audience  ;  and  at 
the  next  call  groans  and  hisses  resounded 
through  the  company.  Thus  the  call  was 
continued,  the  multitude  sometimes  hiss- 
ing, sometimes  shouting,  and  at  others  pre- 
serving a  sad  and  solemn  silence.  When 
the  names  of  Ben  Rust  and  Warden's  Ben 
were  pronounced,  those  two  worthies  were 
first  cheered  separately  and  then  together, 
and  finally  forced  upon  the  stage,  where 
their  awkward  appearance  was  greeted 
with  shouts,  laughter,  and  a  variety  of  ex- 
pressions indicating  their  great  popularity. 
"  And  now,"  said  the  master,  solemnly,  "  I 
will  call  one  for  whose  name  you  have 
all  been  listening.  I  have  reserved  it  pur- 
posely for  the  last,  that  meet  and  proper 
hOjiiours  may  be  paid  to  the  memory  of 
the  heroic  dead.  Brave  in  battle,  constant 
in  friendship,  just  and  generous  in  all  the 
relations  of  life,  that  mighty  heart  is  now 
cold  forever !     Cornelius  Demijohn !" 


rio 


ALA  M  A  N  C  E. 


"  Here  !"  thundered  a  sonorous  and  por- 
tentous voice  in  the  direction  of  the  gate, 
and  the  multitude,  looking  round,  were*  as- 
tonished and  confounded  at  what  they  saw. 
,  Notwithstanding  the  unspiritual  tramp 
of  Uncle  Corny's  feet,  the  Alamancers 
were  inclined  to  the  belief  that  they  saw 
a  ghost,  and  shrunk  shyly  from  the  ap- 
proaching apparition,  until  Henry  War- 
den, calling  for  immediate  attention,  said  : 
"  You  need  not  be  afraid,  my  friends. 
Uncle  Corny  was  with  me  in  the  army  of 
General  Greene  ;  he  returned  with  me  ; 
and,  as  we  came  to  his  mother's  first, 
and  there  learned  that  he  was  generally 
mourned  as  dead,  it  was  agreed  that  he 
should  remain  secluded  at  home  until 
some  public  gathering  should  take  place, 
when  he  was  suddenly  to  make  his  ap- 
pearance. I  assure  you  that  you  see  no 
ghost;  and  if  you  will  handle  him,  you 
will  find  he  is  a  most  substantial  mass  of 
living  flesh." 

They  did  handle  him  now,  much  to  the 
amusement  of  some,  and  greatly  to  his 
own  fatigue  ;  for,  what  with  the  hugging 
and  kissing  of  the  ladies,  the  shaking  of 
his  hands  by  the  men,  and  the  annoyances 
of  the  children  who  swung  by  the  skirts 
of  his  coat  and  climbed  up  his  legs,  he 
was  soon  completely  out  of  breath,  and 
panted  more  fiercely,  and  sweated  more 
profusely  than  he  had  done  in  the  hottest 
engagement  on  the  field  of  battle.  Next, 
in  the  fullness  of  their  hearts,  the  Ala- 
mancers called  for  Donald  M'Leod  ;  and, 
as  he  rose  upon  the  stage,  he  was  saluted 
with  enthusiastic  and  prolonged  applause. 
The  tears  started  down  the  young  sol- 
dier's face ;  and  as  he  said,  "  I  know  to 
whom  I  am  indebted  for  this — neverthe- 
less, I  am  now  an  American  in  heart  and 
soul,"  the  uproar  became  tremendous.  At 
length,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Caldwell  was  brought 
upon  his  legs  ;  but  had  he  spoken  in  trum- 
pet-tones, nobody  could  have  heard  a  word 
he  said,  so  great  had  become  the  excite- 
ment of  the  multitude,  and  so  furiously 
did  they  shout  around  him.  Supper  was 
now  announced,  and  was  duly  honoured 
in  an  arbour  constructed  for  the  purpose. 
After  this,  to  the  tune  of  "  Auld  Lang 
Syne,"  was  sung  a  beautiful  song  of  the 
master's  composition.* 

Those  who  could,  and  those  who 
couldn't  sing,  joined  fiercely  in  the  cho- 
rus, and  it  is  impossible  to  say  how  many 
absurd  and  foolish  things  were  done  while 


*  This  song,  which  was  long  a  favourite  one  at 
Alamance,  is  among  the  master's  papers.  We 
have  preferred  to  leave  it  out,  as  well  as  that  on 
the  death  of  Lucy  Neat:  1st,  because  there  are 
innumerable  sets  of  words  to  both  airs,  and  we 
might,  therefore,  be  accused  of  plagiarism  ;  and, 
2nd,  because  we  have  already  given,  perhaps,  too 
many  specimens  of  the  master's  verse,  and  prefer 
to  keep  these,  the  best,  till  they  are  called  for  in 
another  edition. — Ed. 


all  hearts  were  in  a  state  of  fusion.  Old 
ladies  and  young  were  very  passive — hus- 
bands were  not  particular  as  to  whose 
wives  they  hugged  and  kissed,  and  the 
master — he  confesses  it  himself — even  the 
master  embraced  at  least  a  dozen  with  the 
most  affectionate  fervour  before  he  knew 
what  he  was  about.  There  were  two  per- 
sons, however,  whom  the  music  caused 
only  to  think  of  each  other.  Their  eyes 
met,  and  their  hands  were  joined  when 
the  song  commenced;  and  long  before  it 
was  over,  Edith  was  weeping,  in  the  arms 
of  Henry  Warden,  who  was  straining  her 
to  his  bosom,  and  kissing  her  as  tenderly 
and  incessantly  as  if  he  had  not  seen  her 
before  for  years.  But  this  was  done  in  a 
corner ;  and  every  body  was  too  busy  with 
his  and  her  own  emotions  to  observe  it. 
What  other  things  were  done,  and  what 
said,  lo !  they  are  written  in  the  Book  of 
the  Chronicles  of  Alamance. 

Letter  from  the  Master  to  his  friend,  J.  R.,  of 
Philadelphia. 
Mountain  Home,  December  1st,  179- 

"  My  dear  Sir — When  you  were  at  Ala- 
mance, you  seemed  pleased  with  the  perusal  of 
my  'Notes,'  and  were  good  enough  to  express 
a  desire  to  hear  the  future  history  of  some  of 
those  who  had  been  so  happily  reunited.  The 
task  is  a  grateful  one  to  me,  for  I  am  about  to 
record  what  should  make  the  heart  of  every 
philanthropist  throb  with  pleasure.  My  friend, 
there  is  yet  hope  for  the  world  ;  our  race  may 
yet  be  happy.  I  have  seen  with  my  own  eyes 
two  things  which,  from  the  beginning,  our 
fathers  wished  in  vain  to  see — two  things  of 
which  much  has  been  said  and  more  written 
since  the  foundation  of  the  world,  but  which 
have  been  reserved  for  this  our  blessed  day  and 
generation.  /  have  seen  a  great  man  and  a  hap- 
py love ;  with  my  own  eyes  have  I  seen  them. 
That  part  of  this  is  true  you  will  not  dispute ; 
that  you  may  know  the  other  part  is  equally 
certain,  I  will  detail  to  you  some  particulars 
that  must  interest  every  lover  of  his  race.  My 
opportunities  for  judging  have  been  good  ;  for 
though  all  Alamance  is  my  home,  and  though  I 
have  furnished  apartments  and  keep  a  servant 
at  George  Warden's,  Esther  Bell's,  and  here, 
most  of  my  library  is  at  this  place,  where  I 
spend  the  larger  portion  of  my  time.  I  have 
been,  too,  a  curious  observer,  and  you  know  on 
which  side  my  prejudices  leaned, 

"I  look  upon  Henry  Warden  and  his  accom- 
plished lady  as  the  most  remarkable  people  I ' 
have  ever  known.  They  have  now  been  mar- 
ried several  years,  and,  will  you  believe  me,  he 
is  as  gracious,  attentive,  and  tender,  and  she  as 
affectionate,  gentle,  and  devoted  as  on  the  week 
of  their  nuptials.  With  the  native  modesty, 
diffidence,  and  sensibility  for  which  each  is  re- 
markable, they  studiously  avoid  all  fond  displays 
in  public,  and  yet  it  may  be  observed  that  in  all 
places  and  at  all  times  their  eyes,  full  of  soft 
meaning,  will  steal  towards  eadh  other,  and 
that  their  souls  are  thus  in  constant  and  secret 
communion.  On  all  subjects,  from  the  greatest 
to  the  smallest,  theyjthijji-as.acUy  alike,  and 
while  he  regards  her  as  the  perfection  of  all 


ALAMANCE. 


lil 


that  is  chastely  fair,  purely  innocent,  discreet, 
and  tender,  he  is,  in  her  eyes,  the  mirror  of  all 
the  heroic  virtues,  of  manliness,  generosity, 
and  intellectual  beauty.  They  are  kind  to  their 
Eeighbors,  social  in  their  dispositions,  and  dear- 
ly beloved  through  all  Alamance  ;  yet  it  is  evi- 
dent that  their  own  inclinations  would  lead 
thern  to  seek  only  the  society  of  each  other, 
and  that  they  are  happiest  when  by  themselves. 
She  is  his  confident  in  all  things,  his  counselor 
in  all  things,  his  most  desired  companion  and 
his  fastest  friend  ;  to  him  are  all  her  thoughts, 
feelings,  and  emotions  imparted,  and  to  him, 
and  him  only,  does  she  reveal  all  she  hears. 
Their  sensibilities,  so  far  from  becoming  blunt- 
ed by  familiarity  with  each  other,  become  daily 
more  refined,  each  one  improving  by  the  union 
— he  in  gentleness  and  purity  of  manners,  and 
she  in  intelligence,  prudence,  and  matronly 
grace  and  dignity.  His  honor  and  his  welfare 
absorb  her  existence ;  her  happiness  is  the 
chief  end  of  his.  They  never  separate,  even 
for  a  day,  without  a  most  affecting  leave-taking  ; 
he  writes  to  her  every  day  while  absent;  and 
when  he  returns,  which  is  always  punctually  at 
the  hour  agreed,  she  hangs  fondly  about  his 
neck,  kissing  him  as  tenderly  and  sometimes 
weeping  as  joyfully  as  if  she  were  a  bride  of 
ten  days'  standing.  They  sit  in  church,  and 
walk,  when  by  themselves,  with  hands  locked 
together  ;  and  often,  when  he  stays  longer  than 
usual  in  his  study,  she  will  steal  softly  to  the 
door,  and,  if  no  one  is  present,  will  throw  her 
arms  about  him  and  embrace  him  with  the 
greatest  playfulness  and  most  tender  affection. 
She  is  a  most  tidy  housekeeper  ;  personally  su- 
perintends all  her  household  affairs,  and,  study- 
ing her  husband's  tastes,  arranges  every  thing 
exactly  according  to  his  notions.  When  com- 
pany is  present,  she  lets  her  husband  lead  in 
the  conversation,  and  it  is  gratifying  and  amus- 
ing to  see  how  her  eyes  sparkle  and  her  cheeks 
glow  at  every  witty  or  eloquent  sally  that  falls 
from  his  lips.  Occasionally  she  reads  to  him,  and 
copies  letters  and  papers  for  him  ;  but  at  such 
times  she  makes  little  progress,  being  perpetu- 
ally interrupted  by  the  amorous  caresses  of  her 
lord.  When  they  did  not  know  there  was  a 
looker-on,  I  have  seen  them  sitting  together  in 
the  great  arm-chair,  reading  out  of  the  same 
book,  and  being  affected  by  the  same  emotions 
at  the  same  time  :  they  would,  every  now  and 
then,  look  into  each  other's  eyes,  smiling  or 
shedding  tears,  touch  their  lips  together,  and 
then,  without  saying  a  word,  continue  to  read. 
They  have  two  children — two  scions  worthy 
of  the  parent  stock.  The  oldest  is  a  bright- 
eyed,  sturdy,  manly  boy,  who  is  the  constant 
companion  and  sworn  friend  of  your  servant, 
with  whom  he  has  some  of  the  rarest  frolics. 
Henry  wished  to  name  him  Washington  Ml- 
Bride,  but  Edith  would  have  him  called  Henry 
Washington.  The  other  is  a  girl — a  real  gem 
— a  sweet  blossom  and  the  exact  miniature  of 
her  mother.  Her  Edith  desired  to  name  after 
the  lamented  Lucy  Neal ;  but  the  husband's 
wishes  now  prevailed,  and  she  was  called  after 
her  whose  name  is  to  him  the  sweetest  of  all 
sounds.  It  is  agreed,  however,  that  1  and  Lucy 
shall  be  remembered,  and,  in  the  mean  time,  I 
may  observe  that  I  have  been  duly  honoured 
by  others,  and  particularly  by  my  plain  friend, 


Rust,  who  calls  his  boy  "  Young  Prox,"  or 
"  Proximus,"  though  his  baptismal  name  is 
Benjamin  Warden  Hector  M'Donald  Rust.. 
Ben  and  Nannie  live  very  quietly  and  contented- 
ly;  helookingupto  Henry  Warden  as  the  central 
moral  sun  of  the  universe,  and  she  being  always 
happy,  at  any  hazard,  to  pleasure  Edith.  Don- 
ald M'Leod  and  Kate  are  quite  happy,  living  yet 
with  George  Warden  and  his  wife,  who  are  dil- 
igently employed  in  spoiling  their  grandson, 
George  Washington  M'Leod.  It  is  settled, 
however,  that  Henry  is  to  live  at  the  old  place, 
taking  with  him  his  mother-in-law,  and  that 
Donald  and  Kate  are  soon  to  remove  to  a  place 
near  by,  where  buildings  are  going  up.  As  to 
Uncle  Corny,  I  am  happy  to  inform  you  that, 
a  year  or  two  ago,  he  laid  regular  siege  to  the  f 
fat  widow  with  whom  he  had  the  adventure  at  J 
the  exhibition  at  the  old  field  school ;  and  thus, 
it  is  to  be  hoped,  the  race  of  the  Demijohns 
will  not  become  extinct.  The  widow,  as  Ii 
opine,  would  be  glad  to  have  him  any  day  ;  but 
Uncle  Corny  began  at  the  beginning  and  car- 
ries on  his  approaches  with  great  exactitude, 
after  the  most  ancient  and  approved  forms  and 
precedents. 

"  I  could  tell  him  of  a  Hudibrastic  maxim 
about  the  proper  way  of  courting  widows  ;  but 
he  is  a  grave  and  punctilious  man,  and  withal 
a  good  listener,  and  I  would  not  wound  his  sen- 
sitive feelings  for  the  world.  He  is  a  great 
friend  of  George  Warden  ;  looks  on  the  father 
as  Rust  does  on  the  son,  and  will  resent  in- 
stantly the  least  reflection  on  his  friend.  The 
old  field  school  is  in  a  flourishing  condition, 
being  under  the  care  of  an  estimable  and  learn- 
ed man  of  my  selection,  and  subject  to  my 
constant  visitation  and  supervision. 

"  Nathan  Glutson,  as  I  have  heard,  with  all 
our  other  unworthy  characters,  settled  in  the 
West,  where,  it  is  said,  he  is  now  a  leading,  in- 
fluential, and  violent  politician,  professing  to  be 
an  extreme  republican,  and  having  supplanted 
more  worthy  men  who  had  served  their  coun- 
try faithfully,  but  who  are  not  so  fluent  nor  so 
liberal  in  their  indelicate  professions  of  love  for 
the  people.  This  is  a  very  probable  story,  for 
I  have  myself  seen  something  like  it.  The 
Alamancers  and  many  worthy  citizens  of  the 
county  wished  Henry  Warden  to  represent 
them  in  our  State  Assembly.  Opposed  to  him 
was  a  young  man  whose  father  I  knew  to  be 
one  of  the  vilest  Tories,  but  from  a  proper  feel- 
ing, I  and  others  who  knew  the  fact,  said  noth- 
ing about  it.  Would  you  believe  it  1  this  worthy 
scion  of  a  traitorous  father  declaimed  furiously 
about  British  influence,  and  had  the  unblushing 
impudence  to  arraign  Henry  Warden  as  a  friend 
to  England,  because  his  sister  had  married  Don- 
ald M'Leod  !  My  young  friend,  whose  refined 
sensibilities  were  shocked  at  such  demagogue- 
ism,  withdrew  from  the  canvass,  and  resolved. to 
live  a  private  citizen — a  resolution  by  which 
the  public  will  lose  infinitely  more  than  himself. 
But  such  things  are  natural  enough,  and  must, 
I  suppose,  be  common  every  where.  Those 
whose  love  of  plunder  destroyed  all  their  pa- 
triotism and  their  honesty,  drowning  conscience 
and  all  sense  of  shame,  and  made  them  take 
sides  against  their  country  in  the  day  of  her 
trial,  still  true  to  their  ruling  passion,  will  novr 
out-Herod  Herod,  bid  adieu  to  decency,  belie 


142 


ALAMANCE. 


all  history,  and,  with  the  roost  brazen  effront- 
ery, clamour  for  the  emoluments  of  office.  To 
what,  my  friend,  will  such  things  lead?  What 
will  be  the  result  of  the  grand  and  glorious  ex- 
periment we  are  beginning?  Will  the  people 
be  bestrode  by  demagogues,  and  our  govern- 
ment follow  in  the  track  of  all  republics?  Oh, 
that  I  could  live  to  witness  the  solution  of  this 
problem !  But  I  am  in  the  autumn  of  my  life  ; 
I  have  fallen  into  the  "sere  and  yellow  leaf," 
and,  according  to  the  course  of  nature,  must 
soon  be  gathered  to  my  fathers.  Well :  I  have 
seen  Washington,  and  surely  his  mission  was 
not  in  vain  ;  surely,  as  the  Latins  have  it,  'Nee 
Deus  inter  sit  nisi  dignusvindi.ee  nodus  incident.' 
This  reflection  is  a  consolation,  for  he  must 
have  been  sent  for  a  mighty  purpose. 

"I  spend  my  time  agreeably,  conversing 
gravely  with  my  reverend  friend,  Dr.  Caldwell, 
gossiping  with  my  neighbors,  superintending 
the  school,  correcting  my  'Notes,'  romping 
with  the  children,  and  poring  over  Cicero  de 
Senectate,  Aristotle's  Politics,  Seneca's  Morals, 
and  Tristram  Shandy.  If  you  see ,  pre- 
sent my  best  regards  to  him,  and  accept  for 
yourself  assurances  of  my  kind  esteem.  I 
should  be  pleased,  at  all  times,  to  hear  from 
you,  and  remain, 

"Your  friend, 

"Hector  M'Bride." 


CHAPTER  LVIII. 

CONTAINS    MORE    SENTIMENT   THAN    INCIDENT, 
AND   NOT   MUCH    OF   EITHER. 

Though  the  gentle  pressure  of  Edith's 
hand,  and  the  soft  whispers  of  her  voice, 
were  to  Henry  Warden  like  a  draught  of 
Lethe's  waters,  rendering  him  oblivious  of 
care  and  sorrow,  they  did  not  cause  him 
to  forget  his  duties.  Now  that  his  own 
happiness  was  secured,  he  more  than  ever 
compassionated  the  ills  of  others,  and 
found,  in  the  breast  where  his  own  anxie- 
ties were  buried,  a  sweet  sympathy  with 
all  his  generous  wishes  and  designs.  And, 
first,  he  remembered  the  Scotchman  whom 
Ross  had  injured ;  and,  fearing  that  age  and 
want  might  be  pressing  hard  on  the  old 
man,  he  prepared  to  pay  him  a  visit.  The 
country  was  still  in  an  unsettled  state,  and 
the  roads  dangerous  ;  but  Warden,  feeling 
bound  to  undertake  the  journey,  tore  him- 
self from  the  arms  of  his  fair  young  wife, 
and  with  his  accustomed  confidence  in  the 
special  care  of  an  overruling  Providence, 
assured  her  that  they  would  soon  and  hap- 
pily meet  again.  He  was  accompanied 
by  his  servant  Ben,  and  by  his  friend  the 
master,  who  expected  to  be  able  to  add  a 
new  chapter  to  his  singular  experience. 

"  I  have  thought  much  upon  the  story 
of  Ross,"  said  the  last-named,  when  they 
were  on  the  road,  "  and  it  strikes  me  that 
there  are  some  plausible  propositions  in 
his  remarks." 

Warden. — "  To   what   do   you   allude  ? 


You  surely  do  not  wish  to  discuss  with  me, 
a  married  man,  the  subject  of  love  V' 

M'Bride. — "  God  forbid  !  You  are  in- 
deed married,  my  friend,  and  I  would  not 
deserve  the  name  of  man  or  Christian  could 
I  be  guilty  of  using  in  your  presence  lan- 
guage calculated  to  weaken  in  your  mind 
the  sacred  obligation  which  you  have  con- 
tracted. Marriage  is  a  divine  institute ; 
and,  besides  this,  you  are  wedded  to  one 
whom  none  but  the  steeled  philosopher 
can  see  and  not  adore." 

Warden. — "  J  would  join  in  that  praise, 
but  I  cannot  speak  of  Edith  to  my  nearest 
friends.  I  have  often  thought  that  those 
who  talk  freely  of  their  wives,  even  in 
compliment,  are  brutes." 

The  Master. — "  And  I  think  so  too.  I 
must,  however,  make  one  remark  about 
my  sweet  friend,  and  that  is  this  :  I  ascer- 
tained, before  the  day  of  your  nuptials,  that 
she  was  all  you  had  fancied  her — such  a 
being  as  I  once  vainly  hoped  to  find.  Now, 
what  is  the  inference  to  be  drawn  1  Some 
accident  must  happen,  otherwise  it  would 
seem  that  God's  curse  upon  Adam  and  his 
seed  was  intended  with  exceptions.  If 
two  such  beings  as  you  and  Edith  are  al- 
lowed to  live  prosperously  together,  you 
will  enjoy  an  Eden  equal  almost  to  that 
from  which  all  are  excluded.  The  curse 
is  on  our  race  to  the  latest  posterity ;  at 
least,  till  the  '  millennium.' " 

Warden. — "  How  fallible  are  men's  opin- 
ions !  How  can  mortals  be  wise,  when 
their  reasoning  depends  entirely  on  their 
physical  organization  and  on  their  expe- 
rience ?  Now,  here  are  you  and  myself ; 
both  are  dispassionate,  both  honestly  de- 
sirous of  arriving  at  truth;  and  yet  how 
widely  apart  are  we  in  opinion !  You  are 
forever  desponding — I  am  always  hoping. 
Indeed  '  Hope  on,  hope  ever,'  is  my  mot- 
to ;  and  in  the  darkest  hours  I  ever  believe 
there  is  a  good  time  coming." 

The  Master. — "  I  can  demonstrate  that 
you  are  mistaken.  Has  not  God  cursed 
the  race,  and  allotted  to  us  here  toil,  dis- 
appointment, and  sorrow  1  Now  if  one  in- 
dividual can  escape  this  doom  all  the  race 
may  also." 

Warden. — "Premises  and  conclusions 
are  conceded.  Although  in  Adam's  fall 
the  perfect  fidelity  of  the  race  here  was 
wrecked,  yet  all  was  not  lost.  We  cannot 
be  perfectly  happy  until  we  are  perfectly 
good,  and  I  very  willingly  agree  that 
none  are  or  can  be  righteous.  Yet  we 
may,  as  individuals,  or  as  a  nation,  ap- 
proximate the  standard  of  righteousness, 
and  our  happiness  will  be  proportioned. 
For  instance,  are  not  you — a  pious,  let- 
tered, and  temperate  man — infinitely  more 
happy  than  the  beastly,  vicious,  and  igno- 
rant sot  who  wallows  in  filth  and  sin! 
Even  so  the  man  who  is  better  and  wiser 
than  you  may  be  proportionably  happier. 


ALAMANCE. 


143 


But,  as  I  said  before,  none  can  be  entirely 
blest  here,  for  if  no  other  evil  were  to  be- 
fal  us,  death— ^death — the  most  awful  ca- 
lamity, is  the  portion  of  us  all.  I  expect 
to  be  contented  and  happy  ;  yet  I  also  ex- 
pect occasional  disappointments,  mortal 
pains,  toil,  the  decrepitude  of  old  age,  and 
the  pangs  of  dissolution.  Still  I  will  be 
happy  ;  a  good,  greater  than  the  evil,  will 
follow  me,  and  in  the  very  hour  of  death 
my  soul  will  dilate  with  glorious  anticipa- 
tions of  a  blessed  immortality." 

M'Bride. — "I  acknowledge  that  there 
are  degrees  in  happiness,  and  that  we  are 
blest  according  to  our  deeds  ;  but  is  it  not 
ordained  that  no  one  shall  go  beyond  a 
certain  point  1  I  think  so,  and  I  believe 
that  individuals  and  nations  have  hereto- 
fore been  as  happy  as  they  will  be  .hereaf- 
ter. If  you  will  look  back  on  the  course 
of  things,  you  will  find  that  there  is  a  cer- 
tain point  of  improvement  beyond  which 
we  are  not  allowed  to  pass." 

Warden. — "  So  the  ancient  navigators 
thought  in  regard  to  the  ocean.  For  ages 
and  ages  no  one  crossed  the  Atlantic 
Ocean,  and  it  was  supposed  that  no  one 
could.  To  attempt  it  was. believed  to  be  a 
rebellion  against  the  decrees  of  the  Al- 
mighty ;  and  yet  the  madman  Columbus 
sailed  fearlessly  over  the  forbidden  line, 
and  discovered  a  glorious  new  continent. 
So  will  it  be  with  our  political  Columbus  ; 
and  as  much  as  this  continent  excels  the 
old  ones  in  the  fertility  of  its  soil,  the 
wealth  of  its  mines,  and  the  beauty  and 
grandeur  of  its  scenes,  so  much  shall  the 
wisdom  and  excellence  of  our  government 
excel  those  of  all  other  forms.  I  tell  you 
there  is  a  good  time  coming." 

The  Master. — "  So  thought  the  fabled  Si- 
syphus ;  so  man  has  thought  since  the  day 
of  his  fall,  and  yet  every  successive  gen- 
eration has  followed  in  the  beaten  track. 
There  is,  indeed,  a  good  time  coming  ;  He 
that  cannot  lie  has  promised  it,  but  it  will 
be  after  the  head  of  the  Serpent  has  been 
bruised— after  the  old  Dragon,  man's  im- 
mortal enemy,  has  been  seized  and  bound." 

Warden. — "  But  will  we  not  conquer  him 
by  degrees  ? — gradually  narrow  the  limits 
of  his  dominion?" 

The  Master. — "  He  will,  I  fear,  still  reign 
in  the  hearts  of  a  majority,  and  while  that 
is  the  case,  what  hope  is  there  1  The 
fairest,  most  honest;  and  best  form  of  gov- 
ernment is  the  democratic ;  but  suppose 
we  had  a  democracy  or  republic.  For  a 
while  the  memory  of  the  glorious  revolu- 
tion through  which  we  have  passed,  and 
of  the  virtues  of  its  actors,  would  keep 
alive  a  patriotic  spirit ;  but  this  cannot  long 
survive.  The  world  is  certainly  divided 
into  two  great  classes,  and  the  evil  ones 
are  in  the  majority.  These  latter  will  be 
forever  seeking,  in  all  sorts  of  ways,  per 
fas  et  nefas,  to  promote  their  own  peculiar 


interests,  regardless  of  the  rights  of  others. 
The  others — the  minority,  who  do  not  so 
desire,  will  not  be  let  alone — cannot  re- 
main fixed  in  one  position.  The  man  who 
resolves  to  attend  to  his  own  business,  and 
to  be  disconnected  with  the  affairs  of  oth1 
ers,  makes  a  foolish  resolution.  Even  an 
armed  neutrality  would  be  dangerous,  for, 
while  he  stands  with  his  arms  folded,  his 
rights,  reputation,  and  fortune  will  be  leav- 
ing him." 

Warden. — "  Then  you  think  man  is  the 
common  foe  of  man  ?" 

The  Master. — "  He  is,  not  by  design,  but 
made  so  by  the  ends  he  aims  at.  The 
greater  number  are  aiming  at  pre-emi- 
nence ;  at  the  possession  of  peculiar  pow- 
er, fortune,  and  privileges.  Hence  man- 
kind consist,  and  will  consist,  of  the  suers 
and  the  sued,  of  plaintiffs  and  defendants, 
oppressors  and  oppressed.  There  is  no 
medium  class,  and  those  who  attempt  to 
form  one,  and  to  go  harmless  through  the 
world,  are  common  spoil,  saved  only  by  the 
contentions  of  the  pirates  who  may  fight 
among  themselves  over  the  prize.  It  will 
not  do  to  retire  modestly  within  yourself, 
hang  your  head  meekly,  and  shrink  timidly 
from  the  world.  Go  where  you  will,  to 
the  most  remote  and  secluded  islet  on  the 
globe,  and  some  roving  plunderer  will  find 
you  out  and  spoil  you  of  something,  mon- 
ey, lands,  name,  or  position,  with  which  to 
enrich  himself.  I  tell  you,  sir,  you  are  on 
a  hostile  coast — a  great  highway  of  rob- 
bers, as  old  Burton  has  it,  and  at  every 
step  you  must  fight  or  pay  tribute  to  save 
your  skin.  Thus  it  has  been,  thus  it  is, 
and  thus  it  ever  will  be  ;  the  industrious 
lowlanders,  the  honest  citizens  in  the  quiet 
vales  of  life,  must  be  subject  to  the  black- 
mail levy.  Sometimes — as  in  our  own  re- 
cent case — a  whole  nation,  like  a  rare  in- 
dividual, will  resist  this  tribute,  but,  before 
it  is  aware  of  it,  will  be  paying  it  to  others. 
We  refused  to  be  taxed  by  England,  and 
yet,  before  your  hair  is  gray,  we  will  be 
tributary  to  a  host  of  politicians  and  dem- 
agogues, compared  with  whose  exactions 
the  Stamp  Act,  and  all  its  concomitants, 
would  have  been  an  easy  burden.  Alas 
for  the  world !     I  must  write  a  book." 

Warden. — "  I  have  often  thought  that, 
of  all  the  professions,  an  author's  is  the 
most  pleasant.  He  stands  aloof  from  the 
world  for  whose  good  he  is  labouring,  and 
with  whose  evil  passions  he  never  comes 
in  contact.  The  statesman,  the  lawyer, 
and  doctor,  in  the  prosecution  of  their  call- 
ings, and  the  farmer  and  mechanic  in 
making  a  profit  on  the  produce  of  their  la- 
bour, have  to  combat  with  keen-witted  and 
insatiable  avarice,  treachery,  envy,  and  de- 
traction. The  author  is  happily  freed  from 
this  evil." 

The  Master. — "  You  were  never  more 
mistaken  in  your  life.     First,  there  is  the 


144 


ALAMANCE. 


publisher,  who  wishes  to  make  a  fortune 
out  of  the  hard  service  of  your  brain,  and 
many  of  whom,  totally  without  conscience, 
would,  for  a  mere  pittance,  take  from  the 
needy  son  of  genius  works  whose  value 
all  the  precious  contents  of  Peru's  mines 
could  not  express.  Secondly,  there  are 
rival  authors  who  are  mortal,  and  who 
scowl  with  the.  vgreen  eye  of  envy  on  a 
rising  star ;  and,  lastly,  there  are  your  pro- 
fessed critics,  the  selfish  land-sharks  in  lit- 
erature, the  thievish  highlanders,  piratical 
;rovers,  who  scour  the  seas  in  search  of 
plunder,  making  a  living  by  destroying 
others." 

Warden. — "  You  are  too  hard  on  the 
critics,  who,  as  I  had  supposed,  subserve  a 
most  useful  purpose.  They  are  the  cen- 
sors of  the  press,  public  benefactors  whose 
vocation  it  is  to  purify  the  literature  of  a 
nation  from  impurities  and  immoralities." 
The  Master.— "Stuff!  stuff!  Who's  to 
purify  the  critics  ?  If  these  men  were  ex- 
empted from  mortal  infirmities — if  they 
were  the  best,  the  wisest,  and  discreetest 
of  mortals,  there  might  be  some  reason 
in  your  argument.  But  who  are  they, 
these  self-constituted  censors,  these  awful 
judges,  who  are  to  direct  and  instruct  au- 
thors and  tie  up  the  hands  of  genius  ? 
Miserable  scribblers,  who,  unable  to  suc- 
ceed as  authors,  become  the  plunderers  of 
authors.  They  have  an  origin  in  common 
with  the  footpad  and  the  pickpocket,  hav- 
ing turned  their  wits  to  the  reputable  call- 
ing of  preying  on  others.  This  is  the  true 
history  of  your  professed  critics,  and  it 
illustrates  my  theory  of  the  two  great 
classes  of  oppressor  and  oppressed." 

Warden. — "  You  cannot  make  me  be- 
lieve that  they  are  not  a  useful  class,  and 
subserve,  in  fact,  a  most  invaluable  pur- 
pose." 

The  Master.—"  So  does  the  buzzard  and 
the  carrion-crow ;  and  still  they  are  very 
filthy  birds.  When  did  the  critics  ever 
discover  the  merits  of  an  author  before 
the  public  found  out  his  worth?  Even 
your  honest  critics  are  often  at  fault ;  for 
genius  is  not  measured  by  square  and 
compass.  Genius  scorns  all  rules,  and 
yet  the  critic  judges  by  rule.  What  would 
the  critics  have  thought  of  Shakspeare, 
who  violated  all  their  sacred  canons  ? 
What  did  they  think  of  Dryden  and  Pope  ? 
What  were  their  judgments  on  my  late 
friend — I  call  him  my  friend — the  author 
of  Tristram  Shandy  ?" 

Warden. — "  I  have  never  read  the  work 
"to  which  you  allude  ;  but  from  what  I  have 
heard,  it  is  by  no  means  creditable  to  a 
minister  of  the  Gospel.  It  is  said  to 
abound  in  low  and  vulgar  wit,  and  licen- 
tious allusions  and  remarks.  Such  things 
are  unbecoming  in  such  a  character." 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  effect 
which  this  speech  produced  on  the  mas- 


ter. He  pulled  off  his  hat,  heaved  a  deep 
sigh,  and  then  covered  his  head  again ; 
spurred  his  horse  so  furiously,  that  the 
animal  reared  and  plunged,  and  came  near 
breaking  the  neck  of  his  rider,  who  at 
last,  placing  himself  by  the  side  of  his 
friend,  and  looking  him  mournfully  in  the 
face,  exclaimed,  "  My  friend,  my  friend, 
you  have  sent  an  arrow  through  my  heart ! 
Oh  God.  that  I  should  have  heard  you  say 
so !" 

"What  on  earth  is  the  matter.?"  cried 
Warden.  "  I  am  astonished,  and  can 
hardly  believe  what  I  see  and  hear." 

"  And  well  you  may  be,"  said  the  mas- 
ter ;  "  for  of  all  the  things  you  have  ever 
done  and  said,  your  opinion  of  Sterne— of 
my  friend  Sterne — has  hurt  me  most.  I 
do  not  regard  the  censure — he  has  been 
used  to  that — but  to  hear  it  from  you — 
from  my  favourite  pupil,  my  bosom  friend, 
the  man  whose  heart  and  mind  I  have 
trained,  and  in  whom  I  have  so  justly  glo- 
ried !  But  there  is  one  consolation — you 
have  not  read  Tristram  Shandy,  and  you 
have  formed  yo.ur  judgement  from  the  opin- 
ions and  the  miserable  canting  of  the  crit- 
ics. The  first  thing  I  shall  do  on  our  re- 
turn will  be  to  put  Sterne  into  your  hands  ; 
and  I  know  you  will  give  him  a  fair  and  a 
patient  hearing.  He  was  witty ;  he  did- 
lash  vice  with  an  unsparing  hand ;  boldly 
unmask  the  hypocrite,  and  call  things  by 
their  proper  names.  But  cannot  a  clergy- 
man be  pleasant,  and  smile  oftener  than 
frown  ?  His  heart  was  gentle  and  as 
kind  as  melting  charity ;  his  wit  sparkling ; 
his  humour  boundless  and  inimitable  ;  his 
taste  pure ;  his  sentiments  tender,  just, 
and  fearless ;  and  his  mind  bright  as  yon 
glowing  sun.  Oh,  glorious  and  immortal 
Sterne !" 

Here  the  master,  overcome  with  emo- 
tion, pulled  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  spurred 
up  his  horse,  and  began  to  whistle  snatch- 
es of  a  sad  and  pathetic  air,  when  a  sud- 
den turn  of  the  road  brought  him  in  con- 
tact with  a  company  of  soldiers. 


CHAPTER  LIX. 

"Haply  some  hapless  man  hath  conscience, 
And  for  his  conscience  lives  in  beggary." 

Marlowe. 

"  Well-bred  gentlemen  recognize  and 
trust  each  other  whenever  and  wherever 
they  meet.  The  man  of  truth,  honour,  and 
cultivated  sensibilities  is  never  long  a  stran- 
ger to  those  of  his  kind  when  accident 
throws  him  with  them,  and,  in  fact,  he  is 
known  as  soon  as  he  is  seen.  Thus  it 
was  with  Warden,  the  commander  of  the 
soldiers,  and  myself,  though  perhaps  I 
should  let  another  say  it.  I  was,  I  hope, 
and  had  always  striven  to  be,  a  Christian 
gentleman ;  my  young  friend,  Henry  War- 
den, was  undoubtedly  one  in  its  noblest 


ALAMANCE. 


145 


sense,  and  such  proved  to  be  our  new ; 
companion,  the  officer  alluded  to,  and  in 
whom  I  was  glad  to  find  and  make  the 
acquaintance  of  Captain  Alfred  Moore,  a 
patriot  partisan-leader  of  note,  the  de- 
scendant of  an  ancient  and  honourable 
family,  and  worthy  himself  to  be  the 
founder  of  an  illustrious  house.  I  found 
him  to  be  what  all  leaders,  civil  and  mili- 
tary, ought  to  be,  a  thorough  scholar  and 
well-read  man ;  and  his  manners  and  con- 
versation fully  sustained  the  character  he 
has  borne  in  the  annals  of  the  state." 

Thus  speak  the  master's  notes  as  he  be- 
gins to  sketch  another  portrait,  and  to 
illustrate  it  by  a  variety  of  anecdotes  and 
incidents,  which  at  any  time  and  in  any 
place  would  be  interesting.  The  course 
of  our  narrative,  compels  us,  however,  to 
skip  the  pages  devoted  to  Captain  Moore, 
and  to  follow  the  thread  of  the  "story. 
Moore  and  his  soldiers  were  in  quest  of 
forage,  and  as  he  and  the  Alamancers 
were  going  in  the  same  direction,  they 
travelled  together  for  some  time,  when 
they  overtook  an  old  Scotchman  on  the 
road.  They  were  among  a  Tory  people, 
and  only  the  age  and  humble  condition  of 
the  old  man  shielded  him  from  being  harsh- 
ly questioned.  He  was  plainly  dressed 
and  poorly  mounted  on  a  small,  lean  horse 
of  a  peculiar  species,  known  as  "  Sand- 
trotters,"  and  which  manifested  little  sym- 
pathy with  the  aspirations  of  the  rider,  who 
maintained  a  proud  reserve  and  courtly 
air.  His  manner,  contrasted  with  his  situ- 
ation and  dress,  struck  all  the  company  as 
somewhat  ludicrous  ;  but  the  old  man  was 
with  gentlemen,  and  thus  protected  from 
the  rude  jests  of  the  soldiers.  He  was 
still  suspected,  however,  of  being  a  Tory ; 
and  though  no  injury  was  offered  to  his 
person,  nor  any  insult  to  his  feelings,  he 
was  ordered  by  Captain  Moore  to  lead  him 
and"  his  men  to  some  place  where  they 
could  be  supplied  with  what  they  needed. 
The  aged  Scotchman  bowed  slightly  his 
stately  form,  saying  he  was  ready  to  assist 
the  patriots  to  the  utmost  of  his  ability. 
"  Though  not  in  the  field  against  him,"  he 
continued,  "  I  am  no  friend  to  the  usurper 
on  the  British  throne,  nor  to  any  of  his 
race.  True,  I  am  one  of  a  suspected  race 
and  in  a  suspected  country ;  but  if  these 
locks  had  not  been  whitened,  and  these 
arms  stiffened  by  the  blight  of  age,  there 
would  have  been  in  all  the  American  army 
no  soldier  more  zealous  than  I." 

These  words  seemed  fair  enough ;  they 
came  from  an  honest-looking  face  and 
were  uttered  with  apparent  sincerity  of 
manner,  but  still  the  conduct  of  the  Scotch- 
man was  very  singular.  He  was  in  the 
midst  of  a  fertile  and  plentiful  country, 
and  smiling  fields,  well-stored  barns,  and 
neat  farm-houses  were  on  every  side. 
These  were  regarded  with  wistful  eyes  by 


the  soldiers ;  but  as  their  guide  passed 
them  by  in  silence,  they  followed  on  won- 
dering what,  country  could  be  more  abun- 
dant. All  became  impatient  at  last ;  but 
still  they  rode  on,  waiting  for  a  signal  from 
the  venerable  Scotchman,  who  pressed 
forward,  looking  neither  to  the  right  hand 
nor  to  the  left  at  the  handsome  residences 
and  the  wilderness  of  luxuriant  grain  that 
waved  on  the  sides  of  the  road.  At  last, 
in  a  poor  neighbourhood,  and  opposite  to  a 
shabby  residence  in  a  small  field  of  stunted 
corn,  the  old  gentleman  halted,  and  waving 
his  hand  as  if  he  were  dispensing  the 
bounties  of  a  prince,  "  There,  captain," 
said  he,  "  is  a  plantation,  the  contents  of 
whose  barns,  cribs,  larders,  and  fields  are 
at  your  service."  The  brow  of  Moore 
darkened,  and,  turning  fiercely  to  the 
Scotchman,  he  said,  sternly,  "Old  man,  I 
am  not  to  be  mocked  with  impunity.  Tell 
me  instantly  why  you  have  thus  trifled 
with  me  in  bringing  me  from  well-stored 
farms  to  this  miserable  and  wretched  abode 
of  poverty.  Think  you  that  I  would  take 
the  means  of  one  so  poor  ?" 

"  The  places  we  have  passed,"  answered 
the  old  man,  straightening  himself  upon 
his  horse,  "belong  to  other  men.  and  1 
have  no  right  to  dispose  of  their  harvests, 
abundant  as  they  are.  This  is  my  land — 
these  are  my  fields  and  houses,  and  their 
scant  bounty  I  freely  offer  you." 

Unbidden  tears  instantly  bedewed  the 
manly  cheeks  of  the  gallant  officer,  and, 
seizing  the  old  man's  hand,  he  exclaimed, 
"  Sir,  your  humble  garb  has  deceived  me. 
You  appear  to  be  indeed  poor,  and  your 
garments  bespeak  not  the  man  of  rank ; 
but  in  your  breast,  humble  as  your  condi- 
tion seems,  there  glows  the  royal  soul  of  a 
gentleman !  God  forbid  that  I  should  touch 
aught  of  yours  except,  in  friendship,  this 
honest  and  honoured  hand  !" 

The  eyes  of  the  .Alamancers  were  also 
moist,  and  even  the  rough  soldiers  shared 
the  generous  emotion  of  their  leader, 
when  Warden  exclaimed  to  the  Scotch- 
man, "Your  conduct  has  betrayed  you; 
you  are  Duncan  Stuart!" 

"  I  have  no  reason  to  be  ashamed  of  my 
name,"  replied  the  old  man,  "  though  it 
once  shone  more  brightly  than  it  now  does, 
and  those  to  whom  it  belongs  have  all  seen 
better  days.  I  am  Duncan  Stuart,  and 
now,  permit  me  to  ask,  what  am  I  to 
you  ■?". 

"A  friend,  I  hope,"  said  Warden,  "for 
certainly  I  am  a  sincere  one  to  you.  I 
have  come  from  a  distant  country  express- 
ly to  see  you,  and  I  bring  good  tidings." 

"  I  am  too  old  to  be  surprised  at  any 
thing,"  said  Stuart,  "  and  yet  your  words 
puzzle  me.  The  present,  however,  is  not 
a  proper  time  to  unriddle  the  mystery ;  for 
if  you  are  all  as  hungry  as  I  am  you  will, 
just  now,  prefer  a  different  sort  of  discus- 


148 


ALAMANCE. 


sion.  Gentlemen  and  soldiers,  alight,  and 
Duncan  Stuart  will  endeavour  to  provide 
refreshments  for  all,  men  and  horses." 

The  Alamancers  instantly  obeyed  the 
friendly  summons,  and  Stuart  pressed 
Moore  also  to  partake  of  the  hospitality  of 
his  humble  board,  but  that  active  officer, 
pledging-  himself  to  remember  his  aged 
friend,  and  wishing  him  a  better  fate,  was 
too  intent  upon  the  discharge  of  his  duties 
to  tarry  longer.  Warden,  remembering 
the  villainy  of  Ross,  and  the  calamities 
it  had  caused  to  Stuart,  was  at  a  loss  how 
to  disclose  the  object  of  his  visit,  until  the 
blunt  candour  and  simplicity  of  the  master 
solved  the  difficulty.  v  He,  M'Bride,  at  once 
informed  his  host  of  the  occasion  of  his 
visit,  and  the  latter  heard  it  without  ex- 
hibiting the  emotion  which  Warden  had 
feared.  Rerhaps  his  heart  was  silently 
breaking  within  him  ;  perhaps  fit  had  al- 
ready been  withered,  and  he  was  now  in- 
capable of  excitement.  He  manifested 
but  little  feeling  at  what  he  heard,  except 
that  his  noble  form  expanded  and  his  faded 
eyes  kindled  with  unwonted  fire  as  he 
quietly  said,  "  1  shall  never  touch  the  ac- 
cursed bounty.  True,  I  was  injured  by 
that  Ross  you  mention,  and  am  now  ex- 
tremely poor ;  but  my  pilgrimage  is  nearly 
finished,  and  I  have  enough  to  last  me  till 
I  drop,  like  ripe  fruit,  from  the  tree  of  life. 
My  tenure  is  already  frail,  and  the  slightest 
blast  will  break  the  fragile  stem.  Let  the 
wealth  of  which  you  speak  be  given  to  his 
poor  relations  and  to  his  wretched  female 
victims ;  and  thus  I  would  advise  you  to 
dispose  of  your  own  portion." 

"  So  1  have  intended,"  replied  Warden  ; 
"but  I  see  no  reason  for  your  refusal. 
The  testator  has  injured  you — you  are  old, 
and,  as  I  fear,  nearly  destitute.  1  shall  re- 
turn with  a  sad  heart  if  1  have  to  leave 
such  an  honest  man  in  distress." 

"If  such  were  the  feelings  of  the  few 
honest  men  who  are  prosperous,"  answer- 
ed Stuart,  "how  miserable  they  would  be, 
did  they  only  know  what  a  vast  propor- 
tion of  their  kind — of  the  just,  I  mean — 
are  pining  with  hopeless  penury  and  want ! 
The  ways  of  Providence  here  are  inscru- 
table, and  it  is  not  for  us  to  complain.  Be- 
hold me,  the  son  of  a  long  line  of  kings, 
and,  I  trust,  an  honest  man,  living  here  in 
a  rude  hut,  supporting  myself  in  my  old 
age  with  the  labour  of  my  own  hands,  an 
exile  upon  a  foreign  soil,  and  an  ocean  be- 
tween ine  and  the  graves  of  my  kindred. 
Look  at  this  picture,  and  theu  see  the 
Guelphs,  an  upstart  race,  the  heirs  of  petty 
German  princes,  lording  it  in  the  regal 
palaces  of  the  mighty  kindgom  of  Britain, 
and  ruling  with  a  rod  of  iron  my  own  be- 
loved Scotland — Scotland,  where  at  thei 
very  name  of  Stuart  every  gallant  and  no-' 
ble  heart  thrills  with  emotion!  But  'the 
race  is  not  to  the  swift,  nor  the  battle  to 


the  strong,  nor  riches  to  men  of  under- 
standing; but  time  and  chance  happeneth, 
to  them  all.'  Still,  1  may  hope  that  with 
me  will  expire  the  curse  that  follows  to 
the  third  and  fourth  generations  the  de- 
scendants of  them  that  do  evil.  Some  of 
my  kindred  had  their  faults,  but  their  de- 
scendants have  expiated  them  ;  and  with 
my  sons — brave  and  noble  lads^— 1  hope  a 
better  fortune  will  commence." 


CHAPTER  LX. 

Duncan  Stuart  manifested  some  curi- 
osity to  hear  the  story  of  Ross  ;  and  the 
master,  whose  reading  propensities  need- 
ed but.  a  slight  touch  of  the  spur,  was  soon 
midway  in  the  history  alluded  to.  To  the 
surprise  of  the  Alamancers,  their  host  ex- 
hibited little  emotion  at  what  he  heard, 
and  Warden  was  emboldened  to  ask  the 
story  of  Louise. 

"  It's  a  long  and  tedious  tale,"  said  the 
old  man.  "  and  as  it  has  been  written',  and 
Mr.  M'Bride  seems  to  be  fond  of  such 
things,  the  manuscript  is  his.  Here  it  is, 
and  you  can  both  read  it  at  your  leisure." 

"  Have  you  ever  heard  of  the  lady  since 
she  left  you  V  inquired  the  master. 

"  Only  by  rumour,"  answered  Stuart,  ^of 
which  many  strange  ones  have  reached 
me.  That  cottage,  of  which  Ross  speaks, 
is,  I  suppose,  the  haunted  house  near  the 
river  of  which  I  have  often  heard,  and  in 
regard  to  which  the  superstitious  Scotch, 
my  countrymen,  circulate  and  believe  the 
most  incredible  and  astounding  stories. 
It  is  said  to  be  just  such  a  place  as  the 
fairies  would  love.  The  little  palace  is 
embosomed  among  huge  old  cypress-trees, 
and  surrounded  by  a  wilderness  of  flowers 
of  every  hue  and  from  every  clime,  and 
adorned  inside  with  the  most  costly  and 
elegant  furniture.  It  sits  in  a  small,  soli- 
tary, and  secluded  vale,  just  on  the  riv«»r 
bank,  and  is  overhung  by  huge  mossy  rocks 
and  jutting  precipices.  1  believe,  from 
what  I  have  heard,  I  could  find  the  place, 
for,  I  doubt  not,  it  is  in  a  certain  unsettled 
part  of  the  country,  through  which  I  passed 
years  ago;  but  as  Louise  has  not  been  in 
want,. I  care  not  to  see  her.  Poor  thing, 
how  dearly  has  she  paid  for  her  folly ! 
When  you  read  my  manuscript  you  will 
weep  floods  of  tears  for  the  fair  mad  muse 
of  the  woods,  whose  plaintive  songs  echo 
along  the  unfrequented  vales  like  airs  from 
a  spirit  land,  and  the  occasional  sight  of 
whom,  in  her  fantastic  robes  of  royalty, 
with  a  crown  of  evergreens  on  her  head 
and  a  flowering  sceptre  in  her  hand,  has 
alarmed  the  timid  fisherman  and  belated 
traveller." 

"  I  must  see  her,"  was  the  silent  resolrs 
of  the  master  and  of  his  former  scholar; 
and  as  they  sat  pondering  on  her  probabhr 


' 


ALAMANCE. 


147 


history  and  destiny,  a  new  guest  arrived. 
He  was  a  small,  spare  man,  with  a  deeply- 
embrowned  skiri,  and  showed,  by 'the  brev- 
ity of"  his  sentences  and  his  military  ?.ir, 
that  he  must  have  been  a  soldier  and  an 
officer.  As  it  was  late  in  the  evening,  the 
stranger,  in  tew  and  simple  words,  asked 
permission  to  spend  the  night  where  he 
was  :  a  request  which  greatly  embarrassed 
old  Duncan  Stuart,  for  his  means  were  not 
equal  to  his  princely  desires.  Observing 
his  anxiety,  Warden  said, "  Let  the  stranger 
stay.  I  am  used  to  the  life- of  a  soldier, 
and  should  prefer  the  floor  to  a  bed." 

"And  so  would  I,"  said  the  new-comer, 
"  and  I  shall  not  be  choice  about  my  diet. 
I  know  you're  poor,  old  gentleman,  and  I 
know  your  hospitable  wishes.  Fear  noth- 
ing, for  1  had  rather  take  any  fare  with 
you  than  travel  farther.  I  will  now  look 
to  my  horse,  and  then  you  will  see  how  1 
can  make  myself  at  home." 

"  My  servant  shall  attend  to  your  horse," 
said  Warden. 

"  I  had  rather  do  it  myself,"  replied  the 
stranger ;  and  he  and  Stuart  left  the  house. 
The  curiosity  of  Warden  and  the  master 
was  excited,  and  they  had  a  prodigious 
desire  to  know  the  stranger's  name;  but 
while  they  were  still  consulting  about  the 
proper  mode  of  ascertaining  what  they 
wished  to  learn,  the  person  spoken  of  came 
in.  "  What  has  become  of  Louise  ?•'  asked 
he,  turning  to  Stuart. 

"  I  have  no  right,"  answered  Stuart, 
"  to  ask  your  name,  stranger ;  but  your 
question  rather  surprises  me.  Still  I  have 
no  desire  to  keep  secret  what  I  know 
.about  the  poor  girl."  Hereupon  the  old 
man  related  what  he  had  already  told  to 
the  Alamancers,  and  the  master  soon  after- 
wards read  over  the  history  of  Ross* 

"  The  villain !  I  knew  he  was  such," 
exclaimed  the  stranger;  "but  the  register, 
where  is  that  V 

"  I  have  purposely  kept  it  sealed  till 
now,"  said  the  master,  "  and  I  will  now 
open  it."" 

"Do,  if  you  please,"  replied  the  new- 
guest,  "  and  let  us  see  how  many  worthy 
men  sought  to  make  happy  a  woman  who 
chose  a  scoundrel." 

"Upon  my  soul,"  cried  the  master, 
u  this  must  be  a  fiction.  It  is  not  possible 
that  she  could  have  turned  off  so  many 
illustrious  'suitors.  See  what  a  list  is 
here." 

"The  list's  a  true  one,"  said  the  stranger, 
"  for  I  see  my  own  name  and  those  of 
several  of  my  friends  upon  it.  We  were 
all  her  suitors." 

"  May  I  ask  you  which  is  your  name  V 
enquired  the  master. 

"  It  is  the  first,"  replied  the  stranger. 

"  What !"  exclaimed  Warden,  "  is  it  pos- 
eible  I  see  before  me  that  gallant  leader 
and  glorious  patriot,  Francis  Marion  !  Yes, 


I  know  yqu  are  Marion,  and  God  be 
praised  for  the  hour  that  brought  us  to- 
gether!" All  the  company,  except  the 
South  Carolinian,  were  fairly  electrified 
with  pleasure,  and  the  noon  of  the  night 
was  passed  before  any  eye  was  closed  in 
sleep.  The  master  and  Stuart  did,  at  last, 
sink  to  rest  in  the  arms  of  Morpheus,  but 
the  sun  of  the  next  day  found  Marion  and 
Warden  still  awake  and  talking.  Each 
learned  many  curious  incidents  from  the 
other,  and  their  relative  histories  were 
spiced  with  profound  observations  upon 
the  course  of  things.  The  partisan  leader 
having  learned  enough  of  Louise,  was, 
early  the  next  day,  on  the  road  for  South 
Carolina,  and  the  Alamancers  at  the  same 
time  set  out  to  look  for  the  haunted  glen. 
They  were  soon  in  a  wild,  unsettled 
country,  and  their  farther  progress  along 
the  river  bank  impeded  by  a  thick  under- 
growth of  bushes,  and  by  luxuriant  vines. 
"  If  you  will  hold  my  horse,  I  will  see 
how  far  this  thicket  extends,"  said  War- 
den to  the  master;  and,  dismounting,  he 
soon  disappeared  in  the  woods.  Half  an 
hour  passed  away,  and  M'Bride  and  Ben 
became  extremely  uneasy.  During  the 
next  half  hour  they  kept  up  a  continued 
shout,  and,  at  last,  the  master,  leaving  the 
horses  with  them,  went  himself  into  the 
woods,  searching  them  for  miles  around. 
The  sun  was  just  setting  when  he  re- 
turned to  the  servant ;  and  now,  securing 
their  horses  to  trees,  both  men  beat 
through  the  woods  during  the  whole  of 
the  night,  shouting  and  hallooing  as  they 
went.  They  still  continued  their  search 
on  the  following  day,  until,  worn  down 
with  fatigue  and  hunger,  they  were  com- 
pelled to  discontinue  their  labor  of  love. 
Exhausted  and  frantic  with  grief,  they 
found  their  way  back  to  Stuart's,  where 
they  took  a  hasty  meal,  provided  them- 
selves with  provision  for  several  days, 
and  again,  and  in  the  night,  set  out  to  re- 
commence the  search.  Duncan  Stuart, 
exhibiting  more  emotion  than  the  master 
had  seen  him  display  before,  insisted  on 
being  permitted  to  accompany  the  Ala- 
mancers, and  through  him  the  whole 
neighbourhood  was  set  in  motion.  Day 
after  day,  and  night  after  night,  the  forest 
was  examined,  till,  at  last,  one  of  the  par- 
ties found  a  hat  upon  the  margin  of 'the 
river.  The  master  knew  it  at  once,  and 
the  melancholy  conclusion  that  Warden 
was  drowned  or  murdered  was  forced 
upon  the  minds  of  all.  "  So,  alas !  I 
knew  it  would  be,"  thought  the  master, 
and  he  and  Ben  commenced  their  melan- 
choly journey  to  Alamance.  The  master's 
heart  was  sad  enough  in  its  own  reflec- 
tions ;  but  when  he  heard  old  Ben,  as  he 
often  did,  break  into  fits  of  hysterical 
weeping  and  lamentations,  and  noticed 
the  led  horse  and  empty  saddle,  he  was 


148 


ALAMANCE. 


overpowered  with  emotion,  and  the  stern 
philosopher  was  lost  in  the  helpless  man 
of  grief.  All  the  other  misfortunes  of  his 
life  now  seemed  light  as  air,  and,  with  a 
smothering  sensation,  he  'found  that  his 
theory  had  proved  true.  He  had  cherished 
a  secret  hope-that  he  might  yet  be  de- 
ceived ;  but,  alas !  that  hope  was  gone 
forever.  What  a  curse,  thought  he,  is 
one  evil  man !  how  does  his  villainy- 
entail  wretchedness  on  whole  families 
and  generations !  This  man  Ross  was 
born  for  a  scourge,  and  how  fatally  has 
he  fulfilled  his  mission !  Oh,  would  to 
God  my  reasoning  had  been  false  !  Would 
to  God  it  had  been  proved  so  by  the  loss 
of  my  own  life!  Cursed  forever  be  the 
name  of  Ross  and  Stuart !  Next  rushed 
upon  him  the  memory  of  Edith  and  of  his 
own  unhappy  fate,  in  being  the  bearer 
of  such  mournful  tidings.  Long  did  he 
ponder  as  to  the  best  means  of  communi- 
cating the  sad  intelligence  to  Edith,  and, 
at  last,  resolved  to  go  first  to  the  parents 
of  the  deceased.  He  was  aware  that  the 
bearer  of  bad  news  had  a  losing  task,  but 
he  made  an  effort  to  brace  himself  for  a 
proper  discharge  of  his  duty,  and  intended 
gently,  and  by  degrees,  to  perform  it. 
But  then  there  were  the  led  horse  and 
empty  saddle — how  eloquently  would  they 
tell  the  tale  of  disaster  in  advance  of  the 
master!  The  horse,  after  a  consideration, 
was  left  in  the  woods,  and  M-Bride  and 
Ben  approached  the  Warden  mansion. 
Ail  about  it,  to  the  master's  eyes,  wore 
an  air  of  peace,  of  serenity,  and  content- 
ment he  had  never  observed  before;  and 
even  unconscious  nature  seemed  to  be 
smiling  with  unwonted  beauty.  JBen,  pre- 
serving a  sad  and  gloomy  silence,  walked 
moodily  off  to  the  kitchen  ;  and  the  mas- 
ter, with  a  throbbing  hetut,  and  wishing 
he  never  had  been  born,  entered  the  hall. 
To  his  surprise,  he  found  there  the  wife 
of  Henry  Warden,  who,  with  her  mother- 
in-law,  were  the  only  persons  that  met 
him.  They  saw  the  shadow  on  his  brow 
— the  devoted  wife  and  the  tender  mother 
knew,  intuitively,  what  had  happened,  and 
they  seemed  afraid  to  ask  a  question. 
How  beautiful  did  Edith  then  seem  to  the 
master!  how  his  heart  emot©  him  as  he 
looked  on  her  sweet  and  innocent  face, 
all  beaming  with  love  and  goodness!  He 
turned  from  her,  and  she,  at  last,  in  falter- 
ing, tremulous  accents,  pronounced  the 
name  of  her  husband.  Despite  all  his 
philosophy,  and  all  his  previous  prepara- 
tion, the  master  was  as  much  confounded 
as  if  a  mine  had  suddenly  exploded  under 
his  feet;  and,  losing  all  self-possession, 
exclaimed,  "He  is  gone!  Oh  God,  he's 
lost  forever!"  A  wild  scream  burst 
through  the  hall,  and  the  bewildered 
master,  rushing  first  to  assist  the  fainting 
wife,  gathered  in  his  arms  Henry  Warden, 


on  whose  breast  his  wife  was  weeping  and 
laughing  by  turns! 

"  God  and  his  angels  preserve  us  !"  cried 
the  master;-"  am  1  in  tiia  land  of  spirits?" 

"  You've  been  in  Dreamland  all  your 
life,  my  friend,"-  answered  his  ancient  stu- 
dent, "  and  it  is  my  purpose  to  awake  you.'" 

"  Such  scenes  might  well  awake  the 
dead,"  said  the  master,  "  but  they  cony 
found  the  living.  Tell  me  in  one  minute 
how  you  came  here,  or  my  brain  will 
crack." 

"  Know,  then,  in  one  minute,"  replied 
Warden,  "  that  when  I  left  you  in  the 
woods,  on  Clarendon  river,  I  saw  a  strange 
vision  which  avoided  me.  I  at  once  gave 
chase,  and  the  singular  creature  who 
avoided  me  darted  into  a  cave.  I  followed. 
This  cave  was  an  artificial  one,  and  its 
entrance  was  so  formed  that  you  would 
hardly  observe  it  did  you  not  suspect  its 
existence.  You  passed  over  my  head 
several  times  ;  and  in  the  night,  emerging 
at  another  door  with  my  new  acquaint- 
ance, she  carried  me  to  the  fairy  palace — 
a  sweet,  romantic  place,  fit  for  the  resi- 
dence of  the  queen  of  the  fairies.  Here 
my  wild  companion  told  me  her  story,  and 
well  will  it  become  your  notes.  It  was  a 
history  of  facts  more  startling  and  more 
intensely  interesting  than  the  wildest  fic- 
tions in  prose  or  verse,  and  at  a  more 
convenient  time"  you  shall  hear  it  all. 
Well,  while  at  the  Glen  an  idea  struck  me, 
and  as  every  thing  seemed  to  be  there  in 
abundance,  I  obtained  a  hat,  borrowed  a 
horse,  and  secretly  passing  down  the  river, 
left,  my  own  hat  on  the  bank,  and  hurried 
off  to  get  here  before  you.  My  conscience 
upbraided  me  for  playing  you  such  a  trick, 
but  I  wished  to  cure  you  of  your  malady. 
I  knew,  when  we  left  home,  you  expected 
an  accident  to  befall  me.  I  knew  your  at- 
tachment to  your  theory,  and  1  thought 
that  the  only  way  to  make  you  abandon  it 
was  to  let  you  see  it  carried  out.  Did  you 
not  say  to  j'ourself,  over  and  over  again, 
as  you  returned,  that  you  had  secretly 
hoped  you  were  wrong  1  Did  you  not  be- 
gin to  muiisur  against  Heaven  for  doing 
what  you  h.&&  predicted  ought  to  be  done  ? 
In  a  w©rsij  did  you  not  conclude  that  God 
wasuEjii&il  li©  is  not.  His  Providence 
is  still  antes  lis,  protecting  the  innocent, 
and  guiding  the  good  to  their  own  happi- 
ness, for  not  a  sparrow  falls  to*the  ground 
without  his  knowledge.  Now  look  at  this 
face  upon  my  shoulders :  do  you  not  see 
in  thai  face  a  hope  inspired  by  Heaven 
itselfr 

The  master  glancing  at  the  swimming 
eyes  of  Edith,  in  each  of  which-shone  a 
promise  fairer  and  sweeter  than  the  bough 
seen  by  Noah,  replied,  "  I  give  it  up.  I 
think,  however,  you  might  have  used  a 
more  gentle  remedy,  for  salvation  is  noth- 
ing to  the  pangs  1  have  endured;  and  I 


ALAMANCE. 


149 


have  grown  ten  years  older  by  the  regi- 
men." 

"  And  fifty  wiser,"  rejoined  Warden. 

"And  have  become  .fifty  times  happier, 
I  hope,"  said  Edith,  with  a  smile  that  took 
off  twice  ten  years  from  the  master's 
heart. 

"  Violent  maladies  require  violent  rem- 
edies, jou  know,"  continued  Warden;  and 
here  the  conversation  was  interrupted  by 
Ben,  who,  having  got  drunk  in  one  minute 
after  he  heard  of  his  young  master's  safe- 
ty, now  came  rushing  into  the  hall,  fol- 
lowed by  a  troop  of  servants,  and  kicking 
up  such  a  fuss  as  was  never  before  heard 
•but  in  Bedlam. 


CHAPTER  LXI, 

AND  THE   LAST. 

"When  the  author,  or,  rather,  editor  of 
these  memoirs,  was  a  boy,  he  went  to 
school  at  Alamance.  There  then  lived  in 
in  that  community  a  bland  old  gentle- 
man, somewhat  short,  in  stature,  and  al- 
ways dressed  in  knee-pants  and  buckles. 
His  hair,  which  was  as  white  as  cotton, 
and  which  was  thinly  sprinkled  over  his 
temples,  was  always  nicely  combed  and 
smoothed,  and  never  so  arranged  as  to 
conceal  the  bald  patch  upon  the  crown  of 
his  head.  The  curve  of  his  lip,  and  a  very 
slight  and  peculiar  turn  of  the  nose  indi- 
cated a  disposition  somewhat  satirical,  but 
you  soon  forgot  the  scarcely-perceptible 
acidity  of  his  features  when  you  heard  the 
mellow  tones  of  his  deep-bass  voice,  and 
beheld  the  mild  twinkle  of  his  kind,  gray 
eye.  Fond  of  locomotion,  yet  extremely 
averse  to  exercise  on  horseback,  the  old 
gentleman  could  be  seen  almost  every  day 
of  ihe  week,  except  on  the  Sabbath,  with 
his  staff  in  his  hand  and  a  little  dog  behind 
him,  wending  his  way  through  the  fields 
and  along  the  shortest  by-paths  that  led 
from  house  to  house  at  Alamance.  He 
was  generally  met  by  the  children  some 
distance  from  the  house,  and  he  invariably 
addressed  every  member  of  the  family  by- 
his  or  her  Christian  name,  and  never  was 
known  to  say  "  Mr."  or  "  Mrs."  to  any  one. 
With  boyish  curiosity,  the  editor  observed 
minutely  all  his  habits ;  noticed  that  he 
conversed  much  more  freely  after  taking 
his  "grog"  (by  which  name  he  always 
called  his  dram),  and  that  it  was  his  inva- 
riable custom  \o  sit  with  one  leg  crossed 
over  the  other,  and,  when  he  was  not  going 
to  tarry  long,  with  his  hands,  and  some- 
times his  chin,  resting  on  the  head  of  his 
stick.  Having  been  a  careful  observer  of 
men  and  things,  he  was  a  living  chronicler 
of  the  past,  and  was  particularly  pleased 
when  the  young,  as  they  often  did.  would 
cluster  round  him  and  ask  him  questions 
concerning  the  events  of  by-gone  times. 


On  such  occasions  he  was  entertaining, 
instructive,  and  pathetic,  and  would  talk, 
if  not  interrupted,  and  if  occasionally  re- 
freshed with  a  sip  of  grog,  the  livelong 
night.  He  was  universally  respected  by 
the  old,  revered  by  the  young,  and  es- 
teemed by  all  as  an  oracle  of  wisdom  and 
truth.  He  had,  however,  his  pets  and 
favorites,  and  among  them  was  our  hum- 
ble self,  whom  he  often  dandled  on  his 
knee  and  took  With  him  in  his  rambles 
over  the  fields,  answering  with  equal  sim- 
plicity and  hearing  our  multitudinous  ques- 
tions about  the  various  operations  of  Na- 
ture, and  filling  our  youthful  mind  with 
admiration  and  amazement,  as  well  at  the 
immense  stores  of  knowledge  he  had  gar- 
nered up,  as  at  his  astonishing  acuteness 
and  sagacity.  This  was  Hector  M'Bride, 
the  former  master  of  the  old  field  school, 
and  then  "  in  the  winter  of  his  days."  He 
had  a  residence  in  the  mountains,  his  old 
friends,  Abraham  Neal  and  his  wife,  hav- 
ing left  the  world  together,  and  bequeath- 
ing to  him  all  their  estate.  At  this  mount- 
ain residence  he  spent  part  of  every  sum- 
mer in  study  and  meditation,  and,  it  may 
have  been,  in  composition  also,  for  he  was 
a  most  voluminous  writer.  In  the  course 
of  time,  the  editor  left  Alamance,  and  was 
advancing  on  towards  man's  estate,  when 
the  following  note,  sent  by  express,  was 
put  into  his  hands : 

"  Mountain  Home,  June  4, 18 — . 
"Dear  Sir — I  am  requested  by  our  mutual 
friend,  Hector  M'Bride,  to  desire  your  immedi- 
ate presence  here.  The  good  old  gentleman  i3 
failing  rapidly  in  health  and  strengih,  and  can- 
not, I  greatly  fear,  long  survive.  Come'  imme- 
diately. 

"  It»  haste,  yours  truly, 

"  Henry  Warden." 

We  hurried  off  as  fast  as  a  swift  horse 
could  carry  us,  and  was  soon  by  the  bed-% 
side  of  the  master,  and  found  him  sur- 
rounded by  his  friends — Henry  Warden, 
Donald  M'Leod,  their  wives  and  children, 
George  Warden,  Ben  Rust,  an  old  slave 
named  Bfc.n,  and  a  huge  gentleman  known 
as  "  Uncle  Corny,"  were  there.  His  man- 
ner was  cheerful  but  sedate,  and  his  con- 
versation partook  of  that  gravity  becoming* 
his  character  and  his  situation.  He  could 
not,  he  said,  be  indifferent  to  the  pangs  of 
death  and  the  doubts  that  hung  over  the 
grave  ;  still,  he  had  a  rational  and  abiding 
hope,  and  looked  with  Christian  fortitude 
on  the  deepening  shadows  of 'that  valley 
through  which  all  have  to  pass.  "  Of  all 
things."  he  was  wont  to  say,  "the  idea  of 
annihilation  is  the  most  awful  that  can  be 
presented  to  a  living  soul,  and  it  is  terrible 
to  think  of  ceasing  to  exist,  even  for  a  mo- 
ment." With  a  severe  scrutiny,  he  re- 
vised his  whole  life,  and  one  day  said  to  us 
all,  "  My  manner  of  life,  from  my  youth 


150 


ALAMANCE. 


up,  is  known  to  yon  all.  I  cannot  recol- 
lect that  I  have  ever  coveted  any  one!s 
goods  ;  oppressed  the  poor,  the  widow,  or 
the  orphan;  done  injustice  between  man 
and  man,  been  awed  by  the  rich  and  povv- 
•  srful  to  pervert  judgment,  or  spurned  from 
me  the  friendless  wretch.  In  all  cases  I 
have  looked  to  the  man  and  his  cause,  and 
not  to  his  circumstances  or  his  influence, 
and  have  ever  sided  with  him  whom  I  truly 
believed  was  in  the  right.  I  have  been  de- 
voted to  liberty  and  the  emancipation  of 
my  race ;  I  have  constantly  had  before  my 
eyes  the  fear  of  God,  and  have  endeavoured 
to  keep  his  statutes.  I  will  not  deny  that 
I  shrink  from  the  horrors  of  the  grave ;  I 
will  not  deny  that  I  feel  some  apprehen- 
sions as  I  go  to  take  my  stand  at  the  dread 
tribunal,  where  the  secrets  of  all  hearts 
are  known.  But  we  must  all  die  ;  it  is  a 
debt  we  contract  the  moment  we  enter 
upon  existence.  '  All  flesh  is  grass,  and 
all  the  goodliness  thereof  is  as  the  flower 
of  the  field,'  yet  to  all  inanimate  nature  the 
spring  returns,  and  surely  man,  the  glory 
of  the  earth,  shall  yet  be  renewed  in  per- 
petual youth.  I  trust  in  the  mercy  of 
God ;  such  is  the  staff  of  my  hope  as  I 
pass  through  the  dark  valley  of  the  shadow 
of  death." 

With  such  discourse  he  passed  the  time, 
his  body  sinking  daily,  and  his  mind  seem- 
ing to  grow  brighter,  calmer,  and  steadier. 
On  one  occasion,  desiring  to  be  alone  wilh 
us,  he  took  us  by  the  hand  and  said,  "  My 
young  friend,  I'  am  going  to  show  you  how 
much  you  have  won  upon  my  affection. 
Here  is  a  key  that  unlocks  a  square  hair 
trunk  which  you  will  find  in  my  study,  in 
the  opposite  chamber.  That  trunk  and  its 
contents  are  yours,  with  this  injunction  : 
You  are  not  to  open  it  till  after  my  death, 
and  then  you  are  to  make  such  a  discreet 
use  of  what  you  find  as  will  redound  most 
to  the  public  good  and  the  honour  of  my 
memory.  A  great  charge  is  confided  to 
you — act  worthy  of  my  confidence." 

We  expressed,  in  proper  terms,  our 
sense  of  the  obligations  conferred,  and 
went  out  to  take  a  stroll.  In  a  niche,  a 
shady  niche,  in  the  side  of  a  mountain,  we 
had  often  heard  the  innocent  prattle  of 
children,  and  had  noticed  them  every 
morning  strewing  flowers  upon  a  green 
hillock  there  that  was  covered  over  with 
ivy  and  violets.  We  had  als,o  seen  Henry 
Warden  and  his  lady  going  often  to  this 
place,  where,  from  their  manners,  their 
conversation  seemed  to  be  of  a  sad  and 
affecting  character.  Gur  curiosity  had 
been  awakened,  and  going  to  the  place  we 
saw,  on  a  maple  that  stood  at  one  end  of 
the  little  knoll,  and  in  letters  that  had 
been  nearly  effaced  by  time,  the  simple 
words,  "  Lucy  Neal."  We  were  musing 
on  what  we  saw,  observing  that  the  alcove 
had  once  been  trimmed  and  cultivated,  but 


that  its  seats  were  now  crumbling  away, 
its  paths  choked  up  with  grass,  and  its 
beds  overgsown  with  weeds  and  wild  flow- 
ers, when  Henry  Warden  accosted  us.  Ha 
gave  us  a  brief  sketch  of  the  life  and  death 
of  Lucy  Neal,  and  called  our  atlention  to 
the  fact,  that  every  thing  about  her  rustic 
bower  was  still  left  exactly  as  it  was  when 
she  died,  excepting  only  the  changes  pro- 
duced by  Nature  herself.  About  this 'time, 
the  Rev.  Dr.  Caldwell  arrived  in  the  mount- 
ains, and  the  master  seemed  much  edified 
by  his  discourse,  and  got  him,  in  presence 
of  us  all,  to  read  his  will.  He  left  a  con- 
siderable sum  of  money  to  Alamance 
church,  for  the  purpose  of  buying  a  library, 
and  with  the  will  was  a  catalogue  of  the 
books  to  be  purchased  ;  there  were  a  num- 
ber of  charitable  bequests  to  the  poor, 
and  particularly  to  children  whose  parents 
were  not  able  to  give  them  an  education. 
The  new  teacher  was  also  remembered ; 
for  to  him  was  left  his  classics,  and  to 
every  Alamancer  he  bequeathed  some  me- 
mento. To  his  friends  Rust,  Caldwell,  and 
Uncle  Corny,  he  left  liberal  legacies :  but 
the  bulk  of  his  property  was  settled  on  the 
children  of  Warden  and  M'Leod,  leaving 
to  a  little  daughter  of  the  former,  named 
Lucy,  his  mountain  estate,  and  to  her  fa- 
ther the  balance  of  his  books.  His  strength 
now  failed  rapidly,  but  he  still  was  fond 
of  company,  and  was  particularly  gratified 
by  the  affection  of  the  .children,  whom  he 
kept  constantly  about  him.  One  day  he 
had  himself  turned  with  his  face  to  the 
wall,  and,  while  holding  the  hand  of  a  little 
boy  who  sat  on  the  bed,  the  latter  uttered 
a  playful  exclamation  about  the  coldness 
of  his  skin,  and  we  found  the  master  was 
no  more.  According  to  his  request,  we 
buried  him  at  the  foot  of  a  mountain,  carv- 
ing his  name  on  a  huge  overhanging  rock, 
and  leaving  him  with  that  mighty  hill  for 
his  monument,  where  none  but  the  feet  of 
the  free  shall  ever  tread  upon  his  grave, 
and  where,  as  he  said,  he  should  rise  by 
the  side  of  the  pure  spirit,  of  Lucy  on  the 
morning  of  the  resurrection. 

Leaving  his  friends  to  lament  his  death 
and  pay  proper  honours  to  his  memory, 
we  hurried  home  and  impatiently  awaited 
the  arrival  of  the  trunk.  It  came  at  last, 
and,  eagerly  unlocking  it,  we  found  it 
crammed  with  the  master's  manuscripts, 
and  our  eyes  sparkled  with  pleasure  as 
they  ran  over  the  various  titles  of  the  rare 
collection.  There  were  essays  on  various 
subjects  ;  a  large  bundle  of  maxims,  bon- 
mots  and  pithy  sayings ;  a  book  of  table- 
talk  ;  "  The  Log- Book  of  a  Lady's  Whims 
during  One  Month  of  her  Earthly  Voyage;" 
a  great  number  of  sonnets,  epigrams,  songs 
and  poems,  amorous,  didactic,  and  satiri- 
cal ;  a  curious  work  called  "  The  Rise  and 
Progress  of  a  Politician,"  another  entitled 
"  The  Universal  Vanities  of  Men,"  and  a 


ALAMANCE. 


151 


production  headed,  "  A  Dissertation  on  the 
History  of  Woman,  Natural,  Moral,  and 
Political,  with  an  Attempt  to  elucidate  the 
Mysteries  of  her  Heart,  and  to  account 
for  and  reconcile  the  Inconsistencies  of 
her  Character."  But  that  which  we  were 
most  delighted  to  find  was  a  large  and 
ponderous  mass  of  papers  carefully  writ- 
ten and  stitched  together,  and  forming 
several  volumes.  These  were  labeled, 
"Notes,  taken  on  the  Wayside  of  Life,  by 
Hector  M'Bride,  Schoolmaster,"  and  to 
them  was,  pinned  a  card,  wiih  the  sen- 
tence, "  Await  the  proper  time."  For  long 
months  our  leisure  time  and  our  hours  of 
rest  were  consumed  in  poring  over  them, 
for  they  contain,  in  a  style  chaste  and  ele- 
gant, the  narrative  of  many  surprising  ad-_ 


ventures,  family  histories,  and  amusing 
incidents.  For  years— long,  long  years, 
carefully  have  we  guarded  the  rich  treas 
ures  confided  to  our  keeping,  and  drawing 
from  them,  instruction  and  amusement  in 
seasons  of  trial  and  of  sickness.  Wo 
have  believed  that  the  "proper  time,"  al- 
luded to  by  the  master,  has  come  at  last ; 
and,  so  thinking,  we  now  send  forth  to  the 
world  a  selection  from  his  Notes.  As  to 
the  taste  displayed  in  arranging,  and  the 
ability  in  revising  these  memoirs,  the 
reader  must  decide  ;  of  our  motives  we 
must  be  permitted  to  be  ourself  the  judge, 
and  to  say  that,  with  these,  we  are  so  well 
satisfied,  we  shall  little  reck  of  the  hoarse 
croak  of  the  literary  vultures  who  feed 
upon  the  offal  of  authors. 


ra»   ENO 


A  new  Classified  and  Descriptive  Catalogue  of  Harper  &  Bkothers'  Publications  has  jia» 
been  issued,  comprising  a  very  extensive  range  of  Literature,  in  its  several  departments  of  His- 
tory, Biography,  Philosophy,  Travel,  Science  and  Art,  t..e  Classics,  Fiction,  &c. ;  also  many 
splendidly  Embellished  Productions.    The  selection  of  works  includes  not  only  a  large  propor- 
tion of  the  most  esteemed  Literary  Productions  of  our  times,  but  also,  in  the  majority  of  instan 
ces,  the  best  existing  authorities  on  given  subjects.    This  new  Catalogue  has  been  constructed 
with  a  view  to  the  especial  use  of  persons  forming  or  enriching  their  Literary  Collections,  as 
well  as  to  aid  Principals  of  District  Schools  and  Seminaries  of  Learning,  who  may  not  possess 
any  reliable  means  of  forming  a  true  estimate  of  any  production ;  to  all  such  it  commends  itself 
by  its  explanatory  and  critical  notices.     The  valuable  collection  described  in  this  Catalogue,  con--  i 
sisting  of  about  two  thousand  volumes,  combines  the  advantages  of  great  economy  in  price  with 
neatness — often  elegance  of  typographical  execution— in  many  instances  the  rates  of  publication- 
being  scarcely  one  fifth  of  those  of  similar  issues  in  Europe. 

*,•  Copies  of  this  Catalogue  may  be  obtained,  free  of  expense,  by  application  to  the  Pub* 
fishers  personally,  or  by  letter,  post-paid. 

[n  those  sections  of  the  country  where  there  may  be  no  local  agents  or  booksellers,  it  Is  re- 
spectfully requested  that  orders  from  the  Catalogue,  with  remittance,  may  be  forwarded  direct 
to Ifea  Publishers,  Messrs.  Harper  &.  Brothers,  New  York. 

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>>^r««; 


